


Substituting a Holmes

by Elphen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Jealous Mycroft, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Manipulative Mycroft, Manipulative Sherlock, Mycroft's Meddling, Possessive Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Sibling Rivalry, Unrequited Love, not so unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elphen/pseuds/Elphen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling resigned over their seemingly unrequited feelings for the Holmes brothers, John and Greg go drinking and end up agreeing that the two of them getting together would work as a substitute solution.<br/>Naturally, when the brothers do find out, they don't agree. At all. Just confronting them about it, though, would hardly be the Holmes way, would it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Substitute Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Very first foray into writing for the Sherlock fandom (so be gentle) and I have to "dedicate" this to Ramsi, for without her(?) and her icon, I'm not sure I'd have gone into this fandom at all.  
> Not beta'ed or britpicked, so mistakes are all mine.

“So…you and Sherlock, eh? Really?”

John sighed as he looked at the inspector sitting next to him. After a trying case that had far too much government involvement, not to mention...brotherly affections, they’d agreed to a much needed night out and were now both nursing their second pint in a pub he hadn’t bothered checking the name of and the doctor knew they both looked worse for wear already. That didn’t mean he appreciated the tone of voice or the facial expression.

“First off, phrasing it like that makes it sound like it is mutual, which it’s not and you know it. Secondly, you can wipe that smirk off, Greg. This seems to be very much a pot and kettle situation.” It was hard to know whether to feel a little better or far worse for seeing the smirk slide off Lestrade’s face to be replaced with the same look of resigned hurt that John knew must be adorning his own face, so he settled for grimacing in sympathy and draining his beer.

“Yeah, I know. Being in love with the Ice Man of the British Government is not a whole lot better than being so with a self-confessed sociopath consulting detective. It’s not like I asked for it to happen, either, but then I guess you know how that feels. What a pair we make, huh?” The inspector tried to grin again, but it seemed forced and vanished as fast as it had appeared.

“Fools in love, both of us, and neither of us gay either. Utter idiots in love with the _Holmes_ brothers, no less. I know I have a probably unhealthy craving for danger, but I never would’ve thought I’d be downright suicidal. Same again?”

“Cheers mate.”

 

* * *

 

A few hours later saw them still drinking, though they’d changed pubs. Neither was overly drunk yet, though, as they’d both stuck to beer and was able to hold their drink. Years in the army or police will do that to a person. Nevertheless, they were both sitting somewhat closer than was normal, even for a pair of friends.

“So...how do you cope with it?” Greg asked, frowning slightly over at the shorter man, seemingly intent on an answer. “I mean, it’s bad enough to know that there’s zero chance of reciprocation, never mind my whole sexual identity crisis, but at least I have the chance to get away from having it shoved in my face all the time. You, on the other hand-“

John grinned ruefully as he took another swig of beer, glancing at the silver-haired man out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “Yup. I’ve definitely got a masochistic streak, continuing to live with him. Seriously, I don’t know how I manage, really. Guess it’s my luck that for all his genius and lack of understanding of personal space, he doesn’t seem to have caught on. Or maybe he has and is sparing me.”

Lestrade’s snort came unbidden.” _Sherlock Holmes_ sparing the feelings of someone, John? If you needed any further confirmation, that proves you’re well and truly gone.”

“Sad, but true, yes – which is much like this beer. Right, that’s it.” John stood up, banging his legs slightly against the table as he did so. “I promised Sarah I’d help out tomorrow. Thanks for listening to me, Greg. I appreciate it.”

“Hey, no problem. If you’re gonna go all teenage girl, it’s good to know someone knows exactly what you’re going through, right?”

The doctor lifted an eyebrow, clearly not entirely amused, and then plunked himself back down on the seat he’d just vacated. “Right. For that, you can buy me a whiskey.  A large and proper one, too – I’m not on until the afternoon and with us having solved another case for you, you can handle calling in late.”

They grinned at each other, comrades in solving-crime – well, helping solve them, at least – mischief and pain. “You’re on, John Watson.”

 

* * *

 

“Greg?”

“Hmm?”

“Greg, stop.” John tried to push insistent hands away from the hem of his jumper. “Oi! That’s the last time I take you drinking – get off!”

“But John, it’s brilliant!” The inspector lifted his head from the other’s neck, grinning at him as they continued to walk, somewhat unsteadily. No further explanation was apparently necessary, but the man was drunk, so perhaps that wasn’t so surprising.

“You starting to grope me on the way home from the pub after spending all night complaining about being in love with Mycroft Holmes is _not_ on my list of things I’d call brilliant.” Once again, John tried to peel Greg off of him while still walking, which wasn’t exactly an easy feat. Not made easier by the fact that Greg still wouldn’t let up touching him.

“But-!”  The tone of voice was definitely going on petulant.

The former soldier rolled his eyes skywards, silently thankful that he was used to dealing with the overgrown toddler that was the world’s only consulting detective. “Come on, let’s get you home. With my clothes still on, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

* * *

 

When John had finally got them back to Greg’s flat, in the door and the inspector deposited on his sofa, said man seemed to have sobered up somewhat. He still hadn’t let up in his attempts to get at the doctor, though, but did at least seem to concentrate on getting a kiss instead of groping.

“You know, I appreciate your persistence, but honestly, I’d really appreciate you laying off. Aside from you being drunk and loss of judgement, I’m not actually gay or the type to ‘cheat’.” _Good old John Watson_ , he thought a little self-deprecatingly, _faithful to a permanent unrequited love. Or just faithful to Sherlock bloody Holmes full stop._

“No, no, no.  You don’t get it.” Lestrade sat up after a few false starts and gripped at John’s arm, seemingly insistent on getting his point across.

“Obviously not, as you’ve explained absolutely squat so far. Get some sleep and I’ll see you the next time Sherlock deems a case worthy of his time.”  The younger man extracted his arm, patted the other’s shoulder in sympathy and headed towards the front door.

“But us getting together would be perfect!”

Now that did stop the ex-soldier dead in his tracks on his way out the door. The expression on his face when he turned around was his almost patented-by-this-point look of incredulous-yet-resigned surprise, complete with lightly raised eyebrows, slightly widened eyes and pursed lips.

“You what?” If that was a joke, it certainly wasn’t funny.

Lestrade looked dead serious, however. “Think about it, John. How likely is it that either of us gets hold of a Holmes, romantically? Come on, we’ve spent a whole evening being maudlin about it. I’m not saying we should have sex, but a bit of emotional and physical comfort from the one person who really _understands_ surely can’t hurt, can it?”

John had to agree, with some reluctance and a considerable amount of inebriated logic, that it somehow did make a strange kind of sense. Add to that that neither brother would try to disrupt it, as at least Sherlock always seemed to do whenever John found a girlfriend. There was one thing, though.

 “Hang on. If there’s to be no sex, why the hell have you just spent the entire trip from the pub trying to grope and snog me?”

The silver fox grinned and had the audacity to bloody well _wink_ as he shrugged, still sprawled on the sofa. “Mate, I’m...inebriated, I always get horny when plastered. Take it as a compliment; you’re a handsome bloke.”

“Not to mention available.” The doctor let himself drop down on the sofa next to the inspector.

“That as well.”

John sighed as he raked his hand through his hair. “Alright. I must be even loonier than I thought, but alright. Let’s give it a shot.”

They looked at each other and then proceeded to dissolve in laughter. The whole idea was preposterous, but then again, when you dealt with the Holmes brothers on a regular basis, you got used to preposterous.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock looked up from his microscope to pick up the conversation he’d had with John hours earlier when the man had actually _been_ in the flat. What was in his line of vision, then, wasn’t a man dressed in comfortable jumpers with a soft, understanding and overbearing smile. Instead he had the misfortune to be met with the end of an umbrella, which in turn had an even greater annoyance at the other end, holding the handle.

“Go away, Mycroft. I’m busy,” Sherlock drawled, focusing his gaze back on the mould-samples he’d collected from the inside of several types of used shoes.

“So I see. I think, however, that you might be interested in this bit of information.” The tone was civil, even polite, as was almost always the case with Mycroft, but the face was drawn and the eyes were hard.

“I sincerely doubt it. Now piss off; your gut is blocking the light.”

“Gregory Lestrade and John Watson are sleeping together.”

 


	2. What is a Holmes to do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock discusses the situation; where they stand and what to do about their prospective partners, all among...friendly sibling banter. Obviously

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...so much response and positive ones, too, I'm overwhelmed and so happy. Thank you, everyone, you are truly amazing!  
> Still no beta or britpicker, so mistakes are all mine.

“Gregory Lestrade and John Watson are sleeping together.”

Sherlock didn’t react apart from a snort at first. When it became clear that the older brother was being quite serious and would not move until he got a reaction, the consulting slowly raised his eyes from the microscope again. “And why would I care about what they get up to? If they want to shag each other senseless and it doesn’t interrupt my work, then I see no problem.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you, dear little brother, though I admit you do have some skills in the area.” A tight smile stretched itself across the ginger head’s face for a moment before vanishing behind the steely mask once more.” However, you do give yourself away to the trained eye and I dare say none are more trained than I, even with the.... difficulties we’ve had the last few years.  How does it go now? Something about the observer not realizing he’s become the observed.”

“You ought to be slimmer with how much your jaw works, spouting out nonsense in an endless stream.”

“Weak, Sherlock. Losing your touch, I’d say,” Mycroft chided and then seemed to realize he was about to let his brother succeed in dragging them back into their sibling rivalry, thereby derailing him from his original subject. “Ah, clever. But not clever enough to keep John at your side.”

“He still works with me and writes his little blog. He still continues on his frankly ludicrous quest to fatten me up – he should take lessons from you. If he wants to spend his nights with DI Lestrade instead of whatever member of the fairer sex he’s dug up from God knows where, then good riddance.”

“And if he decides to move in with the inspector? This has, after all, been going on for quite a few weeks already. What if he decides he’d prefer Lestrade over you in every respect?” Mycroft’s voice was close and positively oozing false sweetness.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but the tightening and locking of the jaw and the slight curl of the lip that the younger Holmes couldn’t quite get under control immediately was all the evidence the red fox needed. He would have smirked if the reason had been different. Time to press it home.

The older brother leant back and looked suddenly, deliberately contemplative. “Or...perhaps what one ought to do is get them both. I admit to having had my eye on the inspector for quite a while, but I cannot say that I didn’t take note of John H. Watson the day you decided on bringing him along for your...work. Since then he’s only...grown in interest and intrigue, especially during your temporary death and subsequent resurrection.”

The next thing Mycroft knew, he had a consulting detective right up close and practically snarling at him, long fingers gripping the lapels of an immaculate suit jacket. The older Holmes didn’t back off even an inch, though, but merely gave another tight smile.

“So it’s okay for Lestrade or anyone else to snag John, but if I were to attempt it, you’ll get all possessive? I didn’t think John was just another part of the...rivalry, dear brother.”

“John is MINE!” The roaring snarl left specks of spittle on both their faces.

“And yet you seem to have no problem with him...hooking up, I believe the term is, with Gregory Lestrade? Your logic seems to be...faulty.”  The stodgier man delicately wiped the droplets off his cheeks, smirking slightly as he’d obviously hit a nerve. Another one.

Sherlock deflated slightly and stepped back. His face was still drawn, however, and it was clear that his temper was only just being kept in check. “John is...free to make his own decisions,” he grumbled grudgingly, petulant and most certainly hurt.” And Lestrade is, if nothing else, a decent man, unlike you, Mycroft.”

“Yes, quite so, very much unlike me.  He is a fine man, actually, in more respect that you have any comprehension of. He also happens to be mine.” The ginger haired man held up a hand to at least try to forestall any forthcoming arguments or snide remarks. “Yes, he is. As much as John is yours at the moment, at the very least. Am I correct in assuming that if possible, you would like John to be...romantically involved with you? I’ll take that grimace as a yes. I, personally, would very much like for those two to separate and get Lestrade all...to myself.”

“Do you intend to issue a decree that forbids detective inspectors and ex-army doctors from...fornicating?”

“Minor governmental job authority doesn’t stretch that far.” At this, Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “Oh, fine. Still, that would be a little...medieval, though. Appealing, but not the done way of things.”

“Since when, dear brother, have we ever done anything ‘the done way’?” A small smirk worked its way onto the detective’s features.

A matching smirk played on the still hard features of the elder Holmes.” Very true, but then what do you suggest? Your usual methods of just barging in and declaring something is not going to cut it here, I might add.”

“I don’t just ‘barge in’,” the dark haired man mumbled, sounding put-upon once again and Mycroft silently thanked John Watson for coming into their lives and at least providing a deflection so that it didn’t always have to be Mycroft on the receiving end. According to Lestrade the whole toddler behaviour was also on the decline in general, thanks to John’s influence.

“Whether or not you do is a discussion for another time, I fear,” the redhead said, stamping his umbrella down on the floor lightly as if to call things to order. “As both Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade are familiar with your normal methods of working – and mine as well, yes, thank you – we ought to think of another way of going about it. One that will not...arouse suspicion.”

“Interesting turn of phrase, given the subject matter. But you forget, Mycroft, that both of them are on high alert as a standard when it comes to dealing the two of us.”

“Entirely your fault.”

“Wrong and I at least don’t kidnap people on a whim.” Sherlock seemed determined to get as many jabs at his older brother as he possibly could. He’d plunked himself down in his own leather chair, having picked up his violin on the way, and was resting the bow against the strings. His legs were lazily stretched out so that his feet rested on John’s chair, pointedly disabling Mycroft from sitting there.

“At least _I_ don’t let my living area become hazardous to any potential partner,” the government official returned easily. He walked over and pointedly put his free hand on the top of John’s armchair, earning him a withering glare from the pale eyes of the other which he deigned to ignore. “But leaving that aside for the moment; we cannot just confront them as they might stick together out of spite. “

The younger brother put down the violin and steepled his fingers in front of his face in what he knew John rather pointlessly categorized as his thinking-pose. “Then how about a game? See whether we can seduce the other’s...’significant other’ or they’re going to...be faithful?” The eyebrows rose in obvious challenge.

“Interesting, but unsporting. Besides, what are you going to do when John actually falls for _me_?”

Sherlock sat bolt-upright, the snarl curling his lips before he was even aware of it, his eyes narrowed and blazing with anger. “You wouldn’t _dare_!”

“I’m merely outlining the potential dangers of that plan and the probability of it; after all, the feelings cannot be forged or manipulated or you’d have him around your little finger already.” For some reason, all that remark did was make the dark haired man nod.

“But of course you have a brilliant plan, don’t you, Mycroft?”

The umbrella twirled. “Well, we _are_ brothers, are we not?”

Two identical wolfish grins stretched across the faces of the Holmes brothers and if there was such a thing as premonition, two men lying side by side in a bed in a flat across town ought to be shivering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of sniping in this one, but I had fun writing it for some reason. They're really a blast to write, sibling rivalry and all. But again, feedback, including constructive criticism, is always appreciated. :)


	3. The plan is set up...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John is settling in to their friends-with-emotional-benifits situation rather well, but is suspicious about the lack of reaction from the brothers. Meanwhile, the brothers do a little checking up and...send the ball rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh...my...goodness! SO many kudos, bookmarks and subscribers, I can't believe it. You guys are absolutely amazing, I can't even begin to tell you, I'm flabberghasted - and now I'm just worried that I can live up to it all.  
> Still no beta or britpicker, so mistakes are mine.

For the first month or so after the little Holmes téte-a-téte nothing major seemingly happened and the two thrown-together ‘lovers’ had eventually settled into a form for routine. Once or twice a week they’d go out ‘for a drink’, as John had put it to an apparently, depressingly, uninterested Sherlock the first few times – after that he hadn’t even bothered. Sherlock didn’t care where he went as long as he wasn’t disturbed and if he needed John, he’d just text him as usual, demanding him to show up. In fact, being with Lestrade did make that somewhat easier, too, as they were in on it if there was an ‘official’ case before the consulting detective.

Their ‘going out for a drink’ had originally been that, with eventually them ending up at the inspector’s flat where they’d continue to talk. Sometimes John would go back home at the end, leaving with a hug and a kiss, but more and more as time went on, he’d stay and they’d snuggle up under the covers either to sleep or...whatever else they felt like.

It had actually taken a while for them to one night look at each other, drinks in hand, and laugh about the fact that they still stuck so doggedly to their ‘alibi’ for meeting and both agreed that that was a slightly silly thing to do. Probably had something to do with their personalities, they agreed while snickering, ignoring the slightly weird looks they were given by the other patrons in the pub. After that, they sometimes still had their drink, but John went to a Tesco’s on the way to Greg’s flat and they shared whatever drink he’d procured there, if they felt like it.

Their activities in the bedroom had also come along the way without them discussing it or even really giving it much thought before it happened. It had started with just some snogging after they’d both crawled under the covers and the doctor had to admit that the inspector wasn’t a half-bad kisser, even if he did have too great a fondness for using his teeth.

Then one night, after a particularly gruelling case – not helped in any way by Sherlock Holmes being a complete and utter berk, as per usual, really – John had needed a bit more comfort than kissing could provide. At first they’d just spooned, the smaller man fitting surprisingly well into the curve of the brown-eyed man’s body, but then arms started slowly exploring the other’s body and it eventually ended in them facing each other as they got the other off – or made an effort to. It was clumsy and awkward with a couple of stops as they adjusted to working someone else’s cock instead of their own, but in the end they finished fairly quickly, tired wrists and awkward angles notwithstanding.

 As they lay there panting, their bodies covered in a mixture of sweat and semen, the doctor had snorted a laugh which in turn made the inspector chortle and soon they were both laughing hard, the sound oddly liberating. Then there’d been a few closed-mouth kisses and they settled in to sleep.

Despite that, their nights together still usually ended in them merely sleeping in the same bed, providing that emotional comfort Greg had suggested on that first night. So it was on this night as well. This night, however, something did happen.

“You know, I never would have taken you for a cuddler,” John remarked with a quirk to his lips as he stripped off jeans and climbed onto the mattress.

“You’re one to talk, walking soft plushie that you are,” Greg grumbled, pointedly curling an arm around the shorter man as he got into bed, his hand coming to rest where the soft flesh of the belly stretched and became the taut flesh covering the top of the hipbone.

“If that is your not-so-subtle way of saying I’m getting chubby, ta very much,” the doctor shot back, only half-mocking.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, take-away, donuts and all-nighters ain’t doing much for my waistline either. But no, you’ve actually just got the right amount, firm but with enough softness to make you squeezable. Like a plushie, as I said.”

“You do know how to woo a girl.”

“Yup, I do. But as you’re no blushing girl, why bother with platitudes?” The grin lurking not only in the brown-eyed man’s voice, but on his lips and in his eye was infectious.

The younger man slung an arm over his face, covering his eyes, but leaving the answering grin exposed for the other to see. “I can’t believe this is actually working. I admit I thought you were mad when you suggested it and then through all of the first week I thought we’d be found out by them already. Every time Sherlock looked at me a little longer than he needed to, I thought for sure he’d go into a deduction about all of this and we’d be well and truly exposed. Wonder why he hasn’t said anything – probably boring, knowing Sherlock, but still, he hasn’t even mentioned it as a scathing comment of some sort. ”

“I hear you. He must have deduced it and if he has, Mycroft has as well. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop – it’s not like Sherlock to pass up an opportunity of telling the world how crass and pedestrian it is and how above it all he is,” Lestrade said, the grin transforming slowly into a slightly worried frown.

“Exactly. Speaking of Mycroft, though, I’ve not been...picked up by what’s-her-name-this-week nearly as much in the last couple of weeks as usual. Is that good or bad?”

“Beats me, but then I’ve given up trying to understand their logic. Now please shut up and go to sleep. I’m absolutely knackered,” Greg yawned and burrowed into the pillow and the man cuddled up next to him.

“Well, then doctor’s orders are total rest for about eight hours with something soft and warm next to you.”

“That...was truly dreadful.”

“Pot and kettle, mate. Seems to be our theme.”

 

* * *

 

“Why, exactly, is there no sound? This is frustrating, Mycroft.”

“Undoubtedly, little brother. But as things stand at the moment, when you want cameras as small as these, you have to compromise and either chose good audio or good visuals, and I think we both agree that out of the two, we’d rather have the visuals.” The elder brother turned in his high-backed leather chair, away from the screen showing their love-interests sleeping in Greg’s bed, thereby dislodging the long-fingered hands that had been clutching the sides of the back.” In any case, I would have thought you’d have picked up the skills of lip-reading at this point. I imagine it must come in rather handy in your line of work.”

“Not as much as yours, but then you would have to learn such skills in order to get sufficient use out of these cameras,” Sherlock shot back, clearly annoyed. “But neither you nor I is able to read lips that aren’t clearly visible. Body language is rather clear, though.”

“Indeed and doesn’t that make you furious, how comfortable they are with each other, cuddling, kissing and laughing. I do hope you show more restraint in your normal work than you did when I first showed you footage of them.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Predictably, the consulting detective was snarling slightly, clearly having had his buttons pushed. “Spying on them in private is your brilliant plan? I am sorely disappointed.”

Mycroft sighed, perhaps a little more theatrically than was strictly necessary.” Must you behave like a child so very often, Sherlock? It really is most unbecoming. Of course this is not ‘my brilliant plan’ as you call it. This alone would neither solve anything nor does it offer much entertainment – apart, I think you’ll agree, from that wonderful night they needed some...solace in each other – and it is merely the first step. A recognisance, if you like – a means to an end.”

“And what, pray, might that be?”

“Oh, you’ll see. The thing is to nudge them in the right direction. To put them in the right frame of mind so that when we start to _show_ our interest in them, they’ll not be alarmed or stick together out of sheer stubbornness. To spark some jealousy would be the easiest way of ensuring that, but as we’ve already discussed, it’s unsporting and unbecoming.”

“I’m sure they’d both object to this becoming a game.” The grin in the dark-haired man’s voice was entirely inappropriate.

“Oh, most certainly – the rather prominent and persistent bruise on your cheek from the punch Doctor Watson landed when you returned testifies to that. Which is why they won’t find out. Instead I’ve...prepared some things that will, hopefully, make them...amenable to our advances.”

“You still haven’t told me what they are,” Sherlock said, back to petulance.

“Patience, brother dear. It is a skill I deeply regret not being able to instil in you.” Mycroft’s phone vibrated and pinged, signalling a text coming in. Ah, perfect. The parcel I’ve had prepared has been delivered at our dear detective inspector’s doorstep. This should be interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for ending it on kind of a cliffhanger. Feedback is always appreciated and welcomed, but if it's critique, please let it be constructive.  
> I actually entertained the idea of them seducing the other's man as mentioned in the previous chapter, but I spotted way too much angst up ahead for that path, so I'm going with this. Hope it's well enough received.  
> I do have too much fun out of writing the brothers.


	4. Planting the seed of possibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys receive a parcel, the brothers plot and face a truth or two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...wow...guys, I don't know what to say. So much response by kudos and comments, not to mention bookmarks and subscriptions. Just...wow. THANK YOU, it really means the world. Hope I can keep live up to your expectations.  
> No beta or britpick, mistakes and plotholes are mine

“Greg.”

“Mmhmm!”

“Greg!”

“What?!” The silver fox stuck his head out of the bathroom door, razor still clutched in one hand and half his face still unshaven and covered in foam.

John came walking back from the front door laden with two rather large boxes. His progress was slow and erratic down the hall, hampered as he was by not only the weight and their unhandy nature but by the fact that he could hardly see where he was going over the top of the boxes.

“When you order stuff to have it delivered, maybe you could give me a heads up, so I won’t come over on the day they’re delivered?” came the rather muffled voice behind the boxes, settled on the fondly exasperated tone he’d cultivated and perfected because of Sherlock.

“Sure thing, mate, except that I didn’t actually _order_ anything.” Lestrade put his razor down and, after checking for and failing to find any indication that something was awry with either package, helped the poor doctor by getting the top box and together they carried them into the living room, putting them on the coffee table carefully.

“Blimey, they’re heavy,” the inspector huffed, bending over backwards in an effort to release the tension it had caused in his lower back.

“Perhaps we should get you to join the regime I’ve got going, I really can recommend it for working through every single muscle group you never knew you had.” The doctor was surprised at how much their banter had picked up as a result of this ‘relationship’. It was nice, really.

“Running around London with a madman, doing impromptu parkour and bodily tackling people isn’t a program I’d sign on for, really.”

“Spoilsport. Hang on a minute – that definitely doesn’t say Gregory Lestrade on it.”

Lestrade looked back and forth between the two packages making the coffee under them even wobblier than usual, worry beginning to seep into his features. “Not unless it’s become an anagram of John H. Watson, which I doubt. This one does say Lestrade, but neither of them states my address nor do they have any postage stamps on them. Added to that that I haven’t actually ordered anything and definitely not anything from... _Savile Row_ , what the _hell_?”

“Seems unlikely to be a joke or a threat, really, with that kind of sender and it does sound like clothes in there,” John commented as he started poking and prodding, much to the chagrin of the older man.

“Despite what Sherlock would have you believe, I did actually have to work my way up to being a DI by _detecting_ things, John, so yeah, I had figured that out.”

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, then? Here, help me open yours.”

“I don’t make enough to have something bespoke and definitely not have anything made in _Savile Row_ and I certainly don’t think you do either – or that they’d know to send yours to this address as well. Good grief, it’s a bloody coat and-“ he dug deeper into the box “- a bespoke suit.”

 

* * *

 

“How is _that_ subtle and putting them in the right frame of mind?” Sherlock scoffed as the brothers continued looking at the live footage of the two now unpacking the clothes from the boxes and laying it out – they had only bothered with a few hours sleep on one sofa each. “I don’t know and I don’t care how Lestrade might take it, but I do know John hates charities of any kind. He won’t wear stuff like that in any case, but to have something so extravagantly luxurious _given_ to him is sure to make him balk and refuse it out of principle – that or give it to Oxfam.”

The elder Holmes noticed the inappropriately cheerful expression present on his younger sibling’s face and he raised an eyebrow in his almost trademark manner. “Maybe so, but I doubt it. To throw out something like that he’d most likely find more wasteful than keeping it and given that he’s been given it alongside Lestrade, he’d have to justify it to him as well. But as lovely as I am sure they’ll both look in their new clothes, that was not the purpose of it.”

The consulting detective was quiet for a moment, brow knitted as he thought. Then understanding dawned and he glanced back at the screen where the inspector and doctor were holding up the garments to each other. “Ah. Not half bad. Make it so blatantly obvious that it’s expensive and made for _them_ that the one thing it can’t be is from either of us.”

“Not even for one of your experiments, no. But the notion that it _could_ be and what that might mean they’ll discuss briefly before dismissing is something that will then linger in their minds and perhaps, given the right amount of further hints and gentle encouragement, they will eventually open up and be...amenable to amorous advances.”

“And they say the 19th century is over,” Sherlock snorted.

“Deride all you want, brother dear. At least _I_ am conscious of what lies behind my intentions of claiming the detective inspector for myself – besides just being possessive of him. Can you say the same?”

“I am not the one called The Ice Man.”

“No, your nickname is much better and you _are_ the self-proclaimed sociopath, Sherlock. So do tell me that your desire to get John to yourself is not just because you’re being possessive as you don’t want to share your newest toy, please?”

The younger man’s lips started to curl in a snarl as he prepared a scathing remark about not wanting any kind of _toys_. But as he looked at his older sibling’s distressingly earnest expression, he stopped and conceded to actually think about it. He’d known for some time that whenever John had gone out for ‘drinks’ with Lestrade, the anger and pain he’d felt had had nothing to do with John having fun without him, but that the consulting detective didn’t want to be without him – and the doctor might decide he’d rather do...just about anything else than be around Sherlock, dangerous cases or not. But was that jealousy because of feelings or just plain possessive behaviour because he’d...objectified John?

“I...don’t know,” he confessed in a small voice, surprising them both. “I don’t _do_ feelings, Mycroft,” he added in a somewhat stronger voice. “But I know that John still manages to work them out of me and he is the only one I know that can evoke those things in me at all. I want to keep him with me, whatever that takes...” He trailed off, for once lost for words.

Mycroft then did the rarest of things; he offered his brother a small, but genuine smile. “If you could see your face, dear brother. I believe you and I think that when it comes to winning John over, sincerity – proper, genuine sincerity – will be a deciding factor for him. I’ve noticed him cringing whenever you’ve...pretended and to do that will most certainly have the opposite effect.”

“Generally John doesn’t like being coerced into anything, as you’ve experienced yourself.”

“Quite so. Taking that into account, I look forward even more to seeing how you’ll ever have a relationship with him, but then he never ceases to surprise, does he?”

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock said and the beam on his face rivalled the ones he sported when solving a particularly interesting case and being allowed to display his brilliance.

“I have to say, John, it does suit you.” The detective nodded as if to reinforce his comment. They’d agreed to leave the clothes lying over the table and sofa until Greg could get home from work and John was reasonably sure to have Sherlock preoccupied with something that wouldn’t endanger anyone or anything.

“Come off it, Greg, I look a right toff. Look at this waistcoat; it’s got bloody silver buttons!” The former soldier tugged at the hem of the offending garment as if to get rid of them.

“Yeah...but they go with that dark blue and the silver pinstripes of the suit and waistcoat and with that hair of yours. What colour is that, anyway?”

“Greyish-brown-blond, I think Harry settled on once when we were kids. But seriously, look at us. We look like Mycroft protégés, which is downright ridiculous.”

The silver fox couldn’t help a chortle. “There’s a point. Speaking of Mycroft – you honestly don’t believe that these could be from him? I mean, who else would send, anonymously, three-piece bespoke suits with coats from Savile Row to _us_?”

John sighed as he ran a hand through his hair; they’d been over that argument a few times, both when they’d arrived and during the evening. “Exactly. It’s way too obvious. Neither Holmes does anything obvious – gods, I can actually hear Sherlock snarl at the suggestion, can’t you?”

“Most definitely,” Lestrade returned with a groan. “Sometimes I’m real glad I settled with your instead of either brother.” He tried a smile, but ended with something more akin to a grimace.

“Liar.” The doctor clapped a hand on the other’s shoulder in sympathetic understanding. “I know your heart still beats a little faster whenever the man deems to interfere with a case we’ve taken up – and you get this soft look in your eyes when you even as much as talk about him. I keep expecting you to go all Austen on me.” He shook the shoulder he had a hold on and his lips twisted into a shrewd grin.

“Still pot and kettle. Or was it that people in glass houses sink ships?”

“For that miserable pass at a movie-quote you get to buy the take-away and I’m ordering.”

It became a good but quiet evening that ended with both of them sprawled in a bed, snoring away peacefully, but the idea that the clothes could indeed from either or both of the Holmes brothers wasn’t discussed further between them, but as Mycroft had predicted, the seed had been planted and the notion of it and the possible reasons for and consequences of it slowly began to take root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a little longer to get this out, I had a short eye-infection. I hope it's been as much of a joy to read as it's been to write, lots of dialogue n all. Feedback is always greatly appreciated, but keep the critique constructive, yeah?


	5. Bringing home a suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John eventually has to bring the suit home and Sherlock...doesn't react all too well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for all the feedback, it's really been amazing. I apologize for this taking a bit - Easter does require social time and sitting with a laptop at a party is considered 'a bit not good' to stay in fandom jargon. But you do get about double of a normal chapter, so hopefully that helps.
> 
> A very special and enormous thank you goes to Writteraddict for an absolutely lovely comment.

Eventually John had to bring the clothes home with him. Lestrade pointed out that he did not have room for one set consisting of a three-piece suit and a coat, let alone two. The doctor had countered by noting how likely it was that Sherlock would corner him the moment he came through the door with a box like that and proceed to deduce absolutely everything, just because he could and John wasn’t sure he could deal with having it revealed like that. To that, the inspector remarked that the younger Holmes did that anyway and they’d known the risk of being exposed and possibly ridiculed for the whole thing they’d started. It blew, yeah, but that was the part of the reason they’d decided to start it – to have someone to be there for them that’d _understand_ , dealing with feelings for people like that.

John had to agree that point, loath as he was to do so and so it was that during a dreary, rain-soaked afternoon a few days later he was struggling up the stairs to 221b, encumbered as he was with a box full of posh clothes.

Mrs. Hudson came out when she heard the bumps from the box connecting with the walls on the way up as well as the doctor’s inventive curses.

“Oh, dear, are you alright, love? It looks awfully heavy, that.”

John finally managed to get it up the stairs and through the door to 221b, letting it fall from his hands.” Not too bad, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Or at least it wasn’t until the heavens decided to open. Glad this jacket is at least somewhat weatherproof. Bloody hell, I could murder a cuppa, though.” He stretched, hands placed on the small of his back in an effort to soothe at least a few of the kinks.

The elderly woman smiled at him in what seemed to him to be a slightly overbearing, understanding manner and he had to wonder, once more, whether or not she was actually as absentminded as she appeared. He suspected not.

“Well, I’ve just put the kettle on, it’ll stretch to two just fine. Oh, Sherlock isn’t in, dear,” she added when she saw him glancing into the living room of 221b. ”He rushed out the door half an hour after you left yesterday, actually, hasn’t been back since. Goodness knows the two of you are always coming and going, makes the whole house rattle with all the doors banging, I must say. You want some scones, too? They’re just out of the oven...oh, dear, there’s still flour on the table. I’ll just find a cloth, won’t be a tick.”

The doctor couldn’t help smiling even as he shook his head. Definitely at least _somewhat_ ditzy, but lovably so. He followed her into 221a, helping her arrange things and ignoring the fact that he was actually somewhat clammy and cold. The tea would warm him up sufficiently, he was sure, and if the sweet burn of too-hot tea down a parched throat couldn’t quite dispel the knot of worry and slight sorrow in the pit of his stomach, there wasn’t much to be done about it.

“I know it’s none of my business, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said a little timidly over the rim of her teacup a little while later after John had practically wolfed down his first two scones, “but are you sure you’re alright? You’ve seemed awfully down for some time now. It’s not girlfriend-troubles, is it?”

“Nothing of the sort. I guess I’m just a little worn out is all. These are lovely, by the way,” he added, taking another scone and starting to butter it.  Really, it was nice to know she cared enough to ask, even if he did fob her off with white lies.

“Oh, thank you, yes, they turned out alright, didn’t they?” She paused and something seemed to strike her. “It isn’t Sherlock, is it? He’s been even more stroppy than usual when you haven’t had a case, I’ve noticed. I don’t know how you put up with him, I really don’t.”

They shared a look of understanding. “Me neither, but...somehow I do. You don’t decide who you...click with, do you?” He knew he sounded a little bit wistful, but he couldn’t really help it and it didn’t matter. Not here.

She smiled at him and it seemed like she was about to say something else when the front door banged open and in strode none other than Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, looking...well, John couldn’t pinpoint the expression exactly, but it wasn’t one he liked. At all.

“John.”

The doctor twisted in his seat in an effort to get a better look at his flatmate, brow twisted into a light frown. “Lestrade’s called? There’s a case? Hang on, let me go change my shirt, I’ll be right down-“ The consulting detective glared at him, holding up a hand, and he stopped speaking.

“Upstairs. Now.” The imperious baritone of a voice was laced with something slightly ominous, but the reason seemed to elude the shorter man just at that moment. That didn’t mean he wasn’t annoyed at being commanded, even if he really should be used to it by that point.

“Sherlock, I’m having tea with Mrs. Hudson right now. If there isn’t a case, I intend to finish my cup of tea and my scone, thank Mrs. H for it and _then_ I’ll come upstairs, but only because I need to change out of these clothes and have a nice, long shower to warm me up.”

The curly-haired man’s nostrils actually flared for a brief instant; John couldn’t be absolutely sure from the angle he was sitting at, but they did seem to go outwards for just a second. There was no mistaking the hardness of the glare, however, and when the eyes narrowed the doctor knew they were in for a deduction.

Only it didn’t come. The hand was raised to point, the mouth opened and then...silence. Sherlock kept up his steely glare, but no words came out of his mouth, even though it was clear he was trying. After a moment he closed it, jaw clicking as it shut and then it worked, as if it tried to digest the words stuck on the tongue, which were obviously leaving a foul imaginary taste.

Finally his eyes narrowed and he hissed, “I really wouldn’t trust too much in those buttermilk scones winning over that retired cooper you’re seeing, Mrs. Hudson – he’s a very fanatic vegan” and he swept back out into the hallway and up the stairs.

After ensuring that the elderly lady wasn’t all that upset – “Honestly, dear, I’m fine, really. By Sherlock-standards that one was rather weak, wouldn’t you say?” – John ran up the stairs after the royal pain in the arse he happened to be in love with.

There really was something in the idea of having a...whatever it was that he had with Greg. It gave him, gave them both, an outlet for not only their feelings but for their damn _frustrations_ over what they were put through by the Holmes brothers on a continuous basis, which was possibly the reason he was still somewhat calm about his flatmate’s current behaviour that seemed even more erratic than usual.

“Sherlock, would you _stop_ taking out your tantrums on poor Mrs. Hudson. You are going back down to apologize right this instant.” He stopped as he realized that the box full of clothes was no longer where he had left it, blocking the entranceway, but was instead on the coffee table, being picked apart by the very person he was trying to admonish.

As much as he didn’t want the consulting detective finding out about his ‘relationship’ with Lestrade or that he had gotten the clothes as a gift and at the DI’s place, he wasn’t going to let Sherlock just do whatever he wanted with the clothes either. Someone had worked hard to make the clothes; they didn’t deserve to be subjugated to whatever the curly-haired man could come up with. He took a step forward, intending to tell the consulting detective off for once more disrespecting his private things.

Before he had a chance to voice his protest, though, Sherlock was standing in front of him, glaring at him like he’d been denied access to a particularly interesting case and it was all John’s fault. It was hard for the doctor to _not_ react just the slightest at their proximity, even as he struggled not to; his breath hitched, his heart beat a little faster and damn it all, his nether regions was registering an interest as well. It was nothing that should be too obvious, thankfully, but it wasn’t the time or the place.

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell’s gotten into you now?”

“The clothes, John. The _clothes._ ” How the younger man managed to keep his don’t-be-so-all-encompassingly-stupid tone even when hissing was beyond the ex-soldier.

“Are mine, yes, and therefore you have no business going through them.” He was silently very grateful that the consulting detective also deemed learning addresses that weren’t for cases unimportant and therefore hadn’t recognized the address written on the cardboard box as being Lestrade’s. Small mercies indeed.

“You can’t afford Savile Row bespoke suits, John, let alone a cashmere coat from there, don’t be tedious. Apart from the fact that you’re not the type to invest in a _proper_ suit” – yep, the subtle insults still stung, being in love with the guy not withstanding – “this is not the style you’d go for nor would you bring it home like this. Present, then, from someone who thinks you ought to dress better.” The pale eyes narrowed further, as if the prospect of John getting a present was somehow preposterous.

John had to muse that it was apparently possible to be utterly annoyed and experience the beginnings of arousal at the same time. “It is none of your business, Sherlock, but yes, they were given to me by someone. Who does not concern you, at all. Now, if you’d kindly move out of the way – you’re still going to apologize to Mrs. Hudson, by the way – I’m going to have them put away.”

Suddenly the older man had a very close up view of cupid bow lips, long snub-nose and pale, piercing eyes of ever-changing colour. John had the devil of a job refraining from pushing forward just that fraction of an inch that separated their lips and so it took a while for his brain to divert enough attention to notice that the taller man was making a noise. A noise coming from the back of his throat which sounded an awful lot like a growl; a noise that the former soldier had to admit was damn sexy and not helping his groinal interest in any way.

The jaw worked again, chewing on words that were seemingly strenuous to get out. The emotions – real ones, not the ones pulled on for dramatic effect in service of a case – for once present in the pale eyes were flickering by too fast to be pinned down.

“Throw. Them. Out!” The full lips brushed the doctor’s own with every word, making them tingle ever so slightly.

“What? No!” John sputtered, indignation rising again.” I don’t know what the hell’s going on in that massive brain of yours, but I am _not_ throwing out a perfectly good suit and especially not because you’re in some sort of strop.” The younger Holmes spun away at that and marched towards the cardboard box, grabbing something on the way. “Sherlock, Sherlock, no, no! Put that down, please – not on the clothes! Not- Oh, great. That’s great – my first ever bespoke suit and you go and spill chlorine all over it.”

“It’s chloric acid, John, do try to keep up.” The smirk on Sherlock’s face was wide and slightly predatory, not to mention entirely inappropriate.

The shorter man pinched the bridge of his nose, not knowing which emotion swirling in him he ought to go for. Finally he settled on resigned despair, a favourite when dealing with Sherlock. “Right. Of course it is. Silly of me, really. Honestly, if you don’t want me to steal your glamour, just say it next time, okay?”

Something must have slipped through the possessive thoughts plaguing the consulting detective’s mind, as he took a proper look at John. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done, but that didn’t make the expression settled on his blogger’s face any easier to bear.

“ A bit not good?” he asked, trying for suitably repentant.

“Most definitely – and could you please stop the pretend-to-be-sorry act? It’s grating and it’s not working.” With one last, mournful look at his clothes and a glare at his flatmate, John turned on his heel and stomped up the stairs to his own bedroom, slamming the door when he reached the top.

Sherlock’s phoned pinged. A new text.

**_You WILL buy him a new suit – MH_ **

 

* * *

 

 

Upstairs John was breathing heavily in an effort to calm down. He pulled out his phone and called up Greg, not caring whether he had a case on or not.

“Lestrade.” The doctor took a small guilty pleasure in knowing that the inspector sounded as harassed as he felt.

“I need my head examined, Greg. How the hell can I be in love with a guy that takes _one_ look at the clothes I’ve just brought home and decides to put sodding chloric acid on them? And then he has the audacity to look _pleased_.”

Wanna swap? I’ve got a dead MP who apparently was doing some shady dealings with the Chinese or something and currently I’m caught between a Mycroft Holmes who I can’t decide is annoyed, bored or strangely considerate and a Chief Super who’s about to blow his blooming head off. Not to mention Anderson managed to bugger something up, again.”

“And you haven’t texted Sherlock? I’m impressed.”

“Don’t push it, John, really. Anyway, I think we can safely put to bed the notion that it was from either Holmes. I put my coat on, just to try it out, and there is no show of recognition in Mycroft. Not that he’s easy to read to read at the best of times, but...”

“Yeah. Listen, can I come over tonight? God, I sound like a bleeding teenager, but I’m...well, can I? I’ll explain when I get there.”

“No need to explain, mate, I feel you. Shit, gotta go, now both Mycroft and the Chief Super is looking at me like they’d like to tear me apart.”

“Later, Greg.”

And if Sherlock snapped up the last part of the conversation and if his heart did an involuntary clench as a result, if he then took pleasure in ‘accidentally’ dumping the coat over the worst part of the chloric acid-riddled suit, what of it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the Johnlock-centric nature of this chapter, we will get back to "normal" service in the next one. Still a lot of fun to write for me, at least. As always, all feedback is appreciated, but keep the critique constructive, yeah?


	6. Have we been found out?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Behaviour on both sides set the men pondering if they've been sussed out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, took a bit, but this is also 2K+ words, so I hope you'll forgive me.  
> Wow...we've passed the 100 kudos mark and gotten such lovely feedback. Thank you all again, I'm so pleased and grateful, I can't tell you.  
> Still without outside assistance, mistakes are mine

“Welcome, Detective Inspector.”

Greg tried to ignore the flutter his heart gave at the sight of the ginger-haired man and had to look away to be sure it wasn’t visible to the other. “I don’t see how you are actually in a position to welcome me to my own front step, Mr. Holmes, but though I’m thankful to have you here, I’m sure, I can’t invite you in. I’m expecting a visitor shortly and I would like to have a hot shower before they arrive.” Oh, gods, he had to try hard not to mentally conjoin the joys of a shower with the man standing to the side of him. The visuals were definitely...distracting.

“Ah. But of course. It was not my intention to intrude upon your valuable leisure time. I merely wanted to apologize for the hard time you’ve been experiencing as a result of the...unpleasantness that occurred today, especially my own not entirely pleasant behaviour.”

The damned man could sound so sincere and pleading, so bloody _ingratiating_ when he wanted to that the inspector simultaneously wanted to shake him and snog him for it. Instead he blinked, searching for a response that wouldn’t give away his heart’s continued extraneous hammering. “I...appreciate that, Mr. Holmes, but it’s my job. Or part of it, anyway. There’s really no need, especially not for you to come all the way out here for something so insignificant when you’ve got so much else on your plate.  I really do appreciate the thought,” he added quickly, trying to climb out the hole he was apparently digging for himself, “but there really was no need.”

Instead of the frown Lestrade half-expected to appear on the ginger-haired man’s face he saw a small smile and a strangely soft expression in his eyes. For a moment he felt his heart stutter even harder until the realization hit that this was most likely just another part of the ingratiation-assault. There really were two very fine actors lost in the Holmes brothers, he thought bitterly.

“Perhaps there was, perhaps not. In any case, I really must be going now. Have a pleasant evening, Inspector, and I hope your date appreciates how dashing you look in that coat and so new it is as well. My apologies for not paying the compliment earlier.” With that, the elder Holmes turned and walked back towards the black car waiting him, umbrella twirling in his hand, leaving the silver-haired man to stare at him as he walked away.

“I must have officially entered the Twilight Zone,” he finally mumbled to himself as he watched the car speed off. “Mycroft Holmes _apologizing_ in person _and_ complimenting something I’m wearing – that is a turn-up for the books.”

 

* * *

 

The car had barely turned the corner when the ‘minor government official’ heard his phone ping for a new message. After reading the message he chose to call up the number, though.

“How rare of you to contact me, even through a text. Do tell me that when he came back down into that mess you call a living room you actually did manage to offer the good doctor to replace the suit before he slammed the door.”

Sherlock’s voice was strangely small even as his sulk was obvious. “I did – I tried to apologize as well, to be _nice_ to him. He only stared at me with a look too fleeting to catalogue before he growled that he was getting really sick of my acting at feelings and that he wished I’d stop.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing out slowly as he thought. Normally they’d both revel in the opportunity to have a go at the other, especially if weakness was perceived. However, the elder Holmes could not find it in him to do so; apart from the fact that having a real risk of John closing himself off from any kind of emotional advance from Sherlock would not benefit his own quest to win over the detective inspector, the hurt displayed in his brother’s deep baritone of a voice clawed at his heart in a way he hadn’t thought possible before he inadvertently fell for Lestrade. Caring was indeed not an advantage, but there was no way either of them was giving up on it either.

“You’re not one to be considerate of others, Sherlock, or display anything but selfish reactions. No, quiet. You never have been and it isn’t any wonder that John would not believe you, but think you were playing a part. People do not change overnight and he does know how you usually behave.” Like a child, he added, silently.

“Then what do you propose I do, Mycroft, seeing as you’re _clearly_ an expert?” Apparently Sherlock’s pain did not prevent _him_ from sniping, but the redhead refused to rise to it.

“Of the two of us, I am. For now we keep observing and hinting. Let them think that they discover our...shall we say interest themselves, that we are not aware of it ourselves. Let them realize that we are the...better choice.”

“They are many things, Mycroft, but even I have to admit that they are not stupid; you don’t think that they will think something is...off? As you’ve pointed out so very clearly I don’t normally do sentiment of any sort. A repeat of today’s result would be inevitable if I was to conduct my behaviour as you suggest.”

“This is not one of your experiments, brother mine, and you will not treat it as such.”

“As if you’re one to talk, Mycroft.”

“ Enough. I have other matters that require my immediate attention. I trust you are grown-up enough to be capable of doing something slowly and think of someone other than yourself, just this once. Get another suit ordered for him and then...observe him. He should be arriving at Gregory’s any minute now; you can use it as another opportunity to look at them and see how he likes his relationships to be. You do so like your observations after all.”

* * *

 

John had only just gotten through the front door, a shopping bag filled with varying kinds of booze weighing down his right arm and the key to the flat Greg had given him a week into their ‘relationship’ in his left hand, when he was pushed up against the door by said owner and his mouth assaulted, tongue and all. After the initial surprise, he did give as good as he got, however, and for a moment they stood there, the silver-haired man holding onto the other’s biceps in a strangely firm grip.

“Definitely not the greeting I was expecting,” the doctor gasped when they parted, looking up at the other man with a surprised look. “Not that I’m complaining with the day I’ve had, but what’s brought this on all of a sudden? I thought we’d agreed on a platonic-romantic relationship, so I was expecting the usual tired greeting from the chair.” He smiled as he disentangled himself with some difficulty owing to his full hands and moved past the taller man.

“He _complimented_ my coat, John. He never does social niceties of that kind – they just don’t, do they? Unless of course it suits their needs. I don’t even know which is worse; one hasn’t bothered with niceties enough to first know and now remember that Lestrade is not my first name and the other either uses my title or pronounces ‘Gregory’ like that is a title as well. That he should notice the coat and actually comment on it is just...I don’t know, jarring, somehow.”

“And a compliment – which is a little jarring, I’ll give you that – from your crush on a coat you know you look good in because I’ve told you is enough for you to snog me? You sure you haven’t started drinking without me? Terribly bad form, that.”

“When you feel like you’ve entered the twilight zone, nothing seems too strange and you need a little comfort,” the inspector sighed as he followed the former soldier into the living room.

“Greg, the minute you become acquainted with Sherlock bleeding Holmes, you enter the twilight zone or go down the rabbit hole or whatever you want to call it. For either Holmes to act out of character is...well, in character. A pair of fine actors has definitely been lost in those two.” John ran a hand through his hair, his anger from earlier having strangely dissipated somewhat after the decent snogging. Definitely some perks to this relationship. “Still, knowing doesn’t make it any easier to deal with the acting, does it?” While the anger might have deflated, the bitterness in the voice was still evident.

The silver-haired man laid a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. “No. No, it doesn’t. It makes it worse, actually, which is why, mad as the idea was, I’m real glad we did this. I’m not sure I could handle all of this alone.” He let out a sigh and snaked his arms around the doctor’s waist. “And besides, we make rather a nice couple, don’t you think?” Instead of the light tone he was clearly aiming for, it came out somewhat wistful and resigned.

To the surprise of them both, John grabbed onto the hands resting on his stomach. “In a weird way, yeah we do. It’s a virtual balm after dealing with Sherlock and it’s certainly been a lot easier than most of the girlfriends I’ve had– might even forgive you for the lack of sex.”

“As if you would want it. Come on, out with it – what else did our resident genius-idiot do? You looked like you were ready to murder someone when you came through the door.”

John couldn’t help grinning. “And yet you still thought snogging me was a good idea? Gregory Lestrade, I think you have been hanging around Sherlock and I for too long.”

“Yeah, probably have. So he spilled chloric acid on your nice new clothes, you called me and then what? He went into a sulk?” The inspector directed the younger man down onto the couch and then went to unpack a large bottle of whiskey and several six-packs out of the bag before plonking down on the sofa besides the ex-soldier.

“He acted like he was sorry. He didn’t even settle for his usual childish way of saying sorry just to get it over with because sorry means you’ll be forgiven. It was an actual faked attempt at remorse, damp eyes and all – he even offered to take me to buy a new one!”

“And you didn’t think he was?”

The doctor snorted. “Serious, you mean? No. He doesn’t think I observe, that I pick up things too and I am no Sherlock Holmes, that’s true, but I do _know_ Sherlock Holmes. He’s so absorbed in watching everything that he doesn’t notice someone he already knows watching, not even...” he swallowed the unbidden lump in his throat. “...even after coming back. When he’s playing at something, you can see there’s the tiniest moment when he’s...accessing the file before he launches into it. It took me a long time to pin it down, but...well, I could tell he wasn’t really sorry. Felt like a punch to the gut on top of everything else and I might have reacted a little strongly.”

“Not sure he didn’t deserve everything you threw at him, if nothing else then on principle.” Lestrade was quiet for a bit as he took a drag of his beer, clearly thinking. “Hm. You sure you wouldn’t want to change careers, John? Sounds like you’d make a pretty decent detective. But you’ve got a point – how can you ever tell how much of Sherlock is actually faked? Both of them, really – Mycroft isn’t as flamboyant in his acting as his little brother likes to be, but they both do it.”

“What I worry about is that even if there is some sort of shown reciprocation, how can we know they’re not just playing us?” John grumbled as he settled more firmly into the sofa, unconsciously tilting his body closer towards the silver-haired man. “Manipulation is something they both excel at and I wouldn’t put it past either of them to show some sort of feeling just because they can and want to see what happens. I don’t want to have my feelings shoved in my face like that.”

Greg actually looked a little surprised at that, but then his face settled into a concerned frown. “And you think that’s what they’re doing? That they’ve found us out and are playing us?”

“As said, I wouldn’t put it past them,” John sighed and drained his beer. He sat up so he was hunched over, twisting the empty can around and around in his hands. “Well, no, don’t think they’ve found out, neither about this ‘relationship’ nor our...feelings. Sherlock certainly wouldn’t have spilled acid on my suit, then, he’d have gone on to deduce everything about it and _then_ probably either proclaim how dull and pedestrian I was or he’d have slipped into one of his roles or something...I don’t know...”

Lestrade handed the doctor the bottle of whiskey. “I say we get plastered tonight. We need to find out how to deal with it in case they have found out, but that can wait for tomorrow. Thank _God_ it’s Friday.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if it all seems a little slow-going, there is a point to it all.  
> I dunno...I struggled with the brothers this time around for some reason, which is the reason for the delay. Greg and John I wrote in a day...oh, well, as always I do appreciate feedback of every kind, but prefer criticism to be constructive, so that I can improve.


	7. Unexpected Domesticity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg get domestic and discover the unexpected perils of this in relation to a platonic relationship  
> Meanwhile the Holmes brothers try to deal with a failing plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait - have a 3k+ chapter to make up for it.  
> Wow, still gobsmacked by the amount of lovely response, both kudos and comments - and 111 subscribers, too, blimey! You guys are amazing and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Still no beta or britpick, so mistakes and plotholes are my fault

Waking up next to John was definitely something Greg could get used to. In his waking hours the former army doctor was anything but clingy, thankfully, and while he wasn’t exactly an octopus when asleep either, there definitely was a cuddling side to him. He preferred lying on his back when he went to sleep, but more often than not he’d turn in his sleep and end up lying on the side with one arm slung over the inspector and his head using the other’s chest as a pillow, burrowing into it as he would a pillow.

Greg had started out slightly embarrassed by the whole thing as had John. But as they got used to the other sleeping quirks of their bed-partner – and they would of course swear blind that the only snorer was the other man – he’d found that having someone who wouldn’t shy away from him when not conscious was very comforting, especially when the awkwardness of waking up like that wore off. His ex-wife would always turn as far away from him as possible when she was snoring away, even back in the day when they’d been on good terms. To feel wanted, even if it wasn’t in any kind of sexual way, was something he hadn’t realized he’d missed and craved quite so badly.

Then there was the whole joy of watching John wake up. The former soldier would often be the one to wake first, but on the rare occasion that the silver fox would awake without having to be anywhere he’d enjoy watching the smaller man slowly becoming conscious. There would be a soft look in those eyes as they opened and the face relaxed in sleep would tighten just slightly, most often into a smile, contented as far as Greg could tell from the admittedly awkward angle he was usually viewing it from.

All in all, DI Gregory Lestrade would at those moments both loathe and be grateful that he was already in love with someone else and that John was as well. In those moments and in others as well, he’d curse and congratulate himself simultaneously for coming up with the substitution-plan in the first place. It was lovely not to mention logical, but he couldn’t help worrying what it might mean in the future.

Not that he believed that if they had been found out – and the odds were probably good that they had, given who they were talking about – that it would turn out those two would return their feelings in any way, shape or form. Therefore the likelihood of this substitute-relationship breaking up was slim to say the least, but even in the _extremely_ unlikely event that they’d enter into a romantic relationship with their respective Holmes brother the inspector was guessing that by now it would be hard to give this up. It...worked and worked well and he was certain they’d miss it. Perhaps there’d be a chance of a foursome.

“You know, while I normally enjoy almost every kind of laugh, it’s not entirely pleasant when you’re on top of that laugh,” the man beside him mumbled. He rose himself up on one elbow and cracked a small crooked smile. “What are you laughing about? My inebriated snoring?”

Greg smiled back, his brown eyes full of warmth. “Wouldn’t dream of it – and you probably wouldn’t like what I was thinking of.”

“Try me.”

“If you must know; a foursome with our very own brothers,” the silver-haired man eventually admitted, eyebrows raised in silent challenge. They looked at each other, both maintaining their deadpan expressions...for about twenty seconds before they both cracked up, holding onto each other as they laughed and laughed.

“Seriously, how on earth did that idea enter your head? No, wait, I’m not sure I want to know,” John managed to gasp out when eventually their laughter died down and they’d regained their breath to the point he felt it possible to talk.

“I did warn you,” the older man chuckled. “But I was thinking that if we ever...get our way, so to speak, that I’d miss...well, this. You and me.” He was surprised to find that there was just the slightest of lumps lodged in his throat as he spoke. It was ridiculous, really; it wasn’t even as if they were involved on a romantic level, after all.

“And the solution you could come up with for that was a _foursome_?” Even as the incredulity and amusement was clear in the former soldier’s tenor of a voice, the fingers still grasping the other’s arms started a likely unconscious soothing motion back and forth. They moved as if to say ‘it’s alright, I get what you’re saying, there’s no need to explain further, it’s okay’.

“Yeah, it was. But we established that I’m missing a screw – or several – some time ago...and that really isn’t helpful, John.”

The doctor smiled and nuzzled his nose once more into the chest he’d used as a pillow. “Depends on what it’s supposed to help with. It’s helping me relax and I could do with another hour of sleep.”

“Out. Out of my bed right now. If I’m going to be awake and slightly hung-over then so are you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Greg heard the bathroom door open at the same time the toaster pinged and popped up the pieces of toast slightly too burned. Cursing slightly under his breath, he tried saving it by applying generous amounts of butter in order to soften it.

“Hmm, I’ll take that one, if you don’t mind.” The hand that snaked past the inspector grabbed the toast that he was technically still buttering, so that he ended up dragging the butter knife up over the hand.

“John, that one’s burnt.”

“An’ yet ye’w’re but’ring it,” John managed around the part of toast he’d already stuffed into his mouth. He bit off the piece and grinned after he’d finished chewing, crumbs peppering the corners of his mouth. “Excellent. Got any gooseberry jam left?”

The silver fox stared at his friend, standing there with a towel around his hips, hair still damp and unruly and a half-eaten piece of burn toast in his raised hand, dripping excess butter. Then he blinked and shook his head, smiling a little as he put some more bread in the toaster. “You finished it off last time. Honestly, why do you keep taking the things nobody else would want anyway?”

“Getting Sherlock to eat anything is to tempt him with the best or the most interesting bits, which leaves the...uninteresting bits for me. I suppose it’s habit by now – and I’m happy as long as I actually get to eat anything these days.” John paused to finish off the toast and then proceeded to bleeding _lick_ off the butter that had gotten on his hand and fingers, tongue darting between the digits.

“I-“ For some reason, Greg’s mouth was suddenly dry and he felt the stirrings of... _something_ inside of him. As he heard the toaster ping again, he turned around and sent a silent thank you skywards for the timing. With his eyes not on the smaller man, it was for some reason easier to speak. “John, if you’re gonna do that, please do it...in front of the proper audience.”

“Do what?” the doctor asked, having the audacity to actually sound nonplussed about what he meant. Then the penny seemed to drop. “Wait, you mean the toast?”

“You’re not stupid; of course I mean the toast, or rather, the butter – there is such a thing as a paper towel, you know.” Lestrade cleared his throat and continued in a mumble, “Jesus, I can start to see where some of his frustrations might come from.”

The brown-eyed man glanced out of the corner of his eye. The ex-army doctor stood there for a moment, still clad in naught but a towel, with his head cocked slightly to one side; he had clearly heard what Greg had intended as a mumble and was working out how he should respond to it. In the end he sighed, a look of resigned yet fond exasperation in his eyes, and shook his head. Then he walked back into the bedroom in the hope that he’d at least got one clean pair of pants left here.

As he reached the door, however, he turned and smiled a little. “If you’re so much against it, then find out how we deal with their possible manipulation.”

 

* * *

 

“This is not _working_ , Mycroft.”

“Patience, little brother. It is a virtue.” Despite his words, the umbrella twirled in a clear demonstration of frustration and annoyance.

“And therefore even duller and more something to be avoided. Your ‘brilliant’ plan of slow hinting, patience and insinuation is not _working_. Just look at them – they’re getting... _domestic_!” If the narrowed eyes and sneer to the lips weren’t clues enough, the jealous venom in the deep baritone was more than evident, not to mention revealing.

“John and you are domestic as well, Sherlock, or what passes for domestic in your own, strange way, which I will say I feel with John about. That in and of itself is not indicative of anything, but I will grant you that their more...intimate domesticity is starting to grate on me.”

The younger Holmes threw a glance over his brother, seated in his by now usual chair when they were doing their...surveillance. “The tightness in your trousers begs to differ, _brother dear_ ,” he snarled.

Mycroft didn’t seem fazed by this, though. Instead he merely pursed his lips ever so slightly and, with eyebrows raised, gave a slight but meaningful nod towards his sibling’s own groin, where there was also a tell-tale bulge visible in the immaculate bespoke trousers. Sherlock shifted ever so slightly in his own chair, possibly an attempt to conceal the fact that he was aroused, though more likely in an effort to relieve some pressure. The ginger fox could sympathize with that.

The consulting detective cleared his throat. “Ignoring our...carnal enjoyment of it all, the problem remains. While the camera’s angle of them on the sofa yesterday was insufficient to lip-read more than a few words, it was more than abundantly clear from their body language that they suspect that we are up to something.”

“And what of it? That they suspect isn’t the same as having figured it out, now is it? Besides,” the elder Holmes let his almost trademark smirk adorn his face, “I do believe it was rather the point that they should figure something out.”

“Stop being tediously, purposefully dumb, Mycroft. It does _not_ suit you and right now it grates on my brain.”

Mycroft let the smirk fall to replace it with a hard look in his eyes and a setting of his jaw, clearly not enjoying the comment. “As if others being dumb don’t always grate on you, no matter whom it is; it always has, little brother.”

Sherlock was apparently no longer in the mood to continue sniping. “Quite so and while I do loathe every minute I have to spend in your company, I will allow that you are far from stupid and so it amazes me that you haven’t spotted the flaw in your plan, which has now become more than obvious.” He paused, no doubt for dramatic effect completely wasted on the older man. “That they are apparently already happy enough together and so insinuation and hints that we want them no longer has any hope of sway over them.”

“If I recall correctly, you didn’t have any objections to the plan at the time.” The tone was slightly cold and very much clipped.

“Merely because I wasn’t in on it in the first place – and when you discover that a plan does not yield the desired results, you alter it accordingly so that it might.”

Mycroft leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees and his hands were linked under his chin, fixing his brother with a cool, yet intense look. “Then what do you suggest, pray tell? Seeing as I have clearly no idea of how to handle the situation, you must be an expert.” It was clear the ‘minor government official’ liked being able to throw the insult from their phone conversation back in the other’s face. It was also clear, at least to the consulting detective, however, that the elder Holmes was distressed that he did not know how to win over his love interest after all and there was a real possibility he might never do so.

For a while Sherlock forewent a comment, choosing instead to simply look at the other man with those pale eyes of several colours, face unreadable until it suddenly crumbled into something hurt, uncertain and lost. The ginger-haired man recoiled ever so slightly, though he managed to keep it inwardly, at the amount of emotion displayed on the younger man’s face and so openly as well. The last time he’d seen that amount of unguarded, honest expression on the other’s face was when he was around...five years old. Not that he didn’t know the self-proclaimed sociopath was more than capable of imitating ‘real’ emotions, but they _were_ brothers, IQ-levels about on par and all of that, and the stodgier man was also more than capable of deducing whether it was being faked or not.

“I don’t know, Mycroft. I honestly don’t _know_ and it is driving me absolutely mad. I don’t _do_ feelings, you know that.” Even the voice was emotion-laden. The consulting detective sighed heavily, the look of hurt and bewilderment growing stronger, and waved a hand vaguely. “I had no intention to ever do so, but then John came and...over time wormed his way into the heart I didn’t have without me even noticing.” Admitting that he’d missed something clearly wasn’t helping the pale-eyed man. “I just don’t want to lose him,” he added in a still surprisingly small voice.

Of all things the elder Holmes leaned over and laid his hand on his brother’s knee, squeezing ever so slightly and surprising both of them a little in the process. “I know, Sherlock, and we _will_ find a way. I promise you that.”

 

* * *

 

“So, what do we do? First of all, do we believe they have found out? If so, then why are they behaving like they are instead of...well, being Holmesian about it all? Is it because they’re mocking us and if they are, why? Should we let them know we’ve found them out? Are we even prepared for the consequences of that – or the mocking? And if they haven’t found out, then why the odd behaviour at all? I won’t even entertain the idea that it is because they’re actually harbouring any romantic feelings.” He raked a hand through hair that was already dishevelled. “Gods, for all we know it could just be an experiment or a display of childish possessiveness. I honestly would not put it past them to do so.”

“With that talent for asking questions, no wonder you made it to Detective Inspector.”

“...I appreciate what you’re trying to do, John, but I’m not really in the mood for sarcastic remarks. Now please get your head off my shoulder before it falls asleep and help me solve these questions. Or at least try.”

John sat back up properly in the sofa they were occupying and gave the older man a _look_. “Yeah, because insulting me back is really gonna help. Oh, right, it does because I’m so used to being insulted in every single way imaginable by just about everyone and-“

He was grabbed by the chin by strong, slightly sturdy fingers and silenced by a rather insistent, though closed-mouthed kiss that turned a little dirty when tongues were introduced into the mix. After a couple of minutes they broke apart again and John opened his eyes to find brown irises looking back at him with warmth and just a hint of mirth.

“Sorry, but you really needed to be brought out of that self-deprecating nonsense you were spouting.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but what the devil happened to platonic relationship? First you snog me senseless the minute I get through the door yesterday, this morning you suggest a _foursome_ , then you seemed somewhat...affected by my eating toast earlier and now you decide to kiss me again. Okay, so you get horny when plastered, fine, but you’re only hung-over now. So before we sort out anything else, tell me why?” The blue eyes of the doctor held no irritation or anger, Greg noted, though, only incomprehension.

“I...am honestly not sure, John. Yes, I find you attractive, and not just in a physical way, but I am still in love with Mycroft. You’re just...safe. No, not that look, hear me out. Perhaps ‘safe’ is wrong, but you’re a great mate, you’re dependable and caring and...well, it’s nice being close to someone who has no ulterior motive.” The silver fox tried for a smile, knowing full well how pathetic he sounded.

And John H. Watson surprised him again; he looked thoughtful for a moment, brow creased and then nodded in apparent understanding. No undue comments, no snide remarks, no facial twitches indicative of him thinking it was silly, soppy or anything of the sort. It was another thing that made John a real treasure and definitely desirable. It was a wonder Sherlock Holmes let him out of his sight, even if he had no intentions towards the shorter man. He was sure to be snatched away – well, if it wasn’t for the loyalty the ex-soldier had always had for their resident genius.

Then John smiled, soft and understanding. “Let’s forget that right now. The questions you asked are good ones and definitely worth sorting out. But I can’t help but think that we can’t know and have no way of finding out whether or not they’re on to us without actually asking them.”

Lestrade couldn’t help the snort he made at that.”Yeah, I imagine that’d go over _swell_. I can see it now – though I wish I couldn’t.” He sighed heavily, a wistful look crossing his features.”I suppose you’re right. Neither of us has the mad eye for details and deduction that Sherlock has, so they’ll end up nothing but speculation. But we need to find out how we deal with this strange behaviour, not to mention their possible manipulation – and what to say if _they_ confront _us_.”

“Arh, but confronting us, even for manipulation purposes, would hardly be the Holmes way of doing things, would it? Unless it’s all for the big reveal at the end.” John’s lips twitched, in spite of his best efforts.

The inspector lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “You make it sound like we’re in a Night Time Drama.”

“Well, he does have a flair for and a love of the dramatic, doesn’t he? With his cheekbones and swirling coat and his quick-fire deductions where he arranges to be centre-stage.”

“True, but you forget one thing. They haven’t really been acting like their usual selves, have they? Even if it _is_ a question of manipulation. But there’s still the question of how we deal with them? Do we ignore the behaviour and possibly let them continue to manipulate, do we confront them or do we...try to resist?”

The doctor was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking about it. “Try to resist, definitely,” he finally decided after having thought for quite some time. “I do not like being manipulated and I honestly think that’s what they’re doing, much as I hate to say it. How we go about it, though...” he trailed off.

“You can’t plan anything when the Holmes brothers are involved, you know that. We’ll have to wing it, won’t we?”

John grinned. “What we do best. Speak of the devil, looks like Sherlock’s texted me several times over the last few hours – and what do you know, he’s bored.” He checked the last one. “Oh, crap.”

“What? What’s he done this time?”

“I don’t know, but ‘Oh. That’s new’ is _not_ something I want to hear from Sherlock, especially when he’s bored. I have to go.” He was already standing and heading for the door, shoes and jacket forgotten in his haste.

Greg went after him, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around.” John. John, calm down. You’re not helping anyone running headless like that. For one thing London’s not a barefoot-friendly city.” He grinned suddenly. “Gods, we’re besotted, the pair of us. Do you want me to come with you, in case he’s blown up the flat again?”

The doctor managed to take a deep breath.” No. No, I’m fine. I’ll call you if it turns out he has blown up the flat. Oh, please let him not have blown up the flat.”

The inspector shook his head. “Nah, he’s already done that – pedestrian to repeat it. See you tonight, perhaps?” He tried not to sound hopeful. Wait, why was he hopeful?

“Why, are you asking me on a date?”

“No chance, mate. No, best stay with him. I hate to say this, but I hope I have a case soon. Sherlock Holmes bored is worse than all the criminals in the city.”

John smiled as he shrugged on his bomber jacket. “Amen to that, Greg. But seeing as I got a welcome-back snog and a cheer-you-up-kiss I’m not leaving until I get a have-good-day kiss.”

“Make that a good-luck smooch and you’ve got a deal.” And a smooch it was indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went through a few rewrites and general agony, which explains the added waiting time. Hope it's been worth the wait.  
> As always the feedback is appreciated and treasured and keep the critique constructive, yeah?


	8. A different strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg are exposed to another strategy of the Holmes brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faster this time, still a long chapter, enjoy. Again, the feedback you guys give is amazing and wonderful!
> 
> Still without beta or britpicker, so mistakes and plotholes are mine.

It was with more than a little trepidation that John went through the front door of 221 Baker Street. The building was still standing and there was no noxious fumes drifting out through the windows, which was both good signs, but they didn’t mean that there couldn’t very well be something horrible awaiting him as soon as he stepped through the door. Greg was right; a bored Sherlock Holmes could do more damage in a shorter amount of time and with more spectacular results than the criminals of London combined. But then the unpredictability of the consulting detective was one of the things that had drawn the doctor in in the first place and kept him hooked. One of the things that had made him fall in love as well, most probably.

Nevertheless, there was no knowing what he’d open the door to. Anything from a long, lean body lying prone on the kitchen floor, throwing darts at the ceiling to determine their optimum speed and how long they’d stay stuck, with or without body parts attached, over different patches of acid on various surfaces of the room to an attempt to get a new type of drug resulting in a violent splatter of...materials all over the kitchen in every single direction. The possibilities were endless, unfortunately.

This was why, when the doctor finally dared to open the door, he was a little stumped to find the living room apparently empty and horrid-experiment-gone-wrong free. The consulting detective wasn’t in the kitchen or his own bedroom either, so John managed to breathe a sigh of relief until he heard a scuffling noise coming from his own bedroom.

“Sherlock Holmes, whatever you are doing, stop right this instant!” he shouted as he bounded up the stairs, prepared to snatch away anything that the younger man had gotten hold of. What he found stopped him dead in his tracks and his eyebrows shot up all on their own.

There was Sherlock, dressed in pyjamas and his favourite dressing gown, bent over as he was rummaging through the top drawer of _John’s_ dresser, pulling out different items of clothing and throwing them behind him. He showed no sign of having heard John, which wasn’t exactly surprising, but was damn frustrating nevertheless.

Every so often, he would stop and look closely at one item only to let it drop to a small pile already accumulating at his feet. The shorter man noticed that the pile consisted of different items, ranging from socks and pants to jumpers, t-shirts and even a pair of shorts the doctor had honestly forgotten he owned.

As he stood staring at his best friend so blatantly ignoring any kind of proper social conduct or respect for other people’s _private_ things, John had to take several deep breaths. He bit down on his first intended response of ‘What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?’ and on the second of ‘Sherlock, stop now. Rummaging through my _underwear_ is just not on!’. He worked his way through several others in his head, each getting progressively less enraged and settling more and more into his usual exasperated state. Damn Sherlock Holmes, he’d forgive him anything in the end – and that really should frustrate him more than it did.

Finally he settled on, “So this is the thing ‘that’s new’, is it? What, are you finding I haven’t got quite as many Y-fronts as you expected or is the experiment of the day to see which material gives the largest amount of static electricity?” Unconsciously, he folded his arms over his chest.

“Don’t be absurd, John. I did that in my twenties,” came the distracted reply as the younger Holmes continued to paw through the dresser drawers, but at least it was a reply. “What I didn’t expect was how chloric acid leaves different types of hole-edges and residue depending on cloth material. I am merely searching for types of cloth I haven’t yet tried, but your propensity for polyester and cheap cotton is appalling.”

John felt his anger rise again and had to pinch his nose and take several more deep breaths in order to keep somewhat calm. “So, what you’re saying is that not content with ruining my new suit and coat, you decided to rifle through my clothes and ruin some more.” He looked at Sherlock and was met with calm, pale eyes and an expression that said ‘obvious’ far more clearly than any words could. “Great. Just great. Not like I’m broke or anything and can’t afford to actually replace what you ruin, not to mention that you have _again_ violated both my privacy and my trust.” He threw out his arms in an exasperated gesture. “Sometimes, I really don’t know why I bother.”

Something flashed in the detective’s eyes, too briefly to be identified properly, but what might on a lesser man, if one was able to discern it, have been named as ‘fear’.

“I said I was going to buy you a new suit,” he snapped, as if it was _John_ that was being unreasonable. “I’ll replace these clothes as well, obviously. Anyway, you obviously didn’t like it and it would have been far too flashy for you.”

“That’s not the _point_!” John was surprised by the strength of his yell. “Neither for you tipping acid on the suit in the first place or thinking you can just walk into my room and take my clothes. The suit was a _gift_ and you have no right to just do such a thing, regardless of what you _think_ I would have done. You have no right!” He forcefully slammed the drawer shut, only just missing trapping the long fingers in there. “No right at all to waltz all over me, in what seems like a deliberate attempt to ruin or mock anything that’s good in my life!”

“John, I-“

And with the look of what John took to be faked surprise and anguish, he felt his unexpected anger fold in on itself; it imploded into a pit of exasperated, despairing resignation that squeezed at his already aching heart. He held up a hand. “No, please, Sherlock. I can’t deal with any more faked emotions on your part right now, so please. Just stop. Get what you need for your experiment and then please get the hell out of my room or I swear I will do something regrettable.”

“John, I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, you did and for God’s sake, don’t claim you weren’t thinking either. You always do.”

Sherlock continued to look at him for about half a minute, face twisted in an expression the doctor neither could nor wanted to interpret. Then he bent to retrieve the pile at his feet and stormed out the door; one could almost say fled.

After closing the door firmly, the ex-soldier sat down heavily on his bed, ignoring the added clutter on it, and buried his head in his hands. Why this exact escapade affected him so much, he wasn’t quite sure. It wasn’t as if the consulting detective didn’t do these kinds of things on a regular basis or that he didn’t trample all over, so why was this so important? Why had he reacted so violently?

“Because I think he’s manipulating me,” he answered himself in a whisper. “Because when it’s just Sherlock being Sherlock, it’s fine. It can even be sweet in its own weird way. But manipulation...” Why would this constitute manipulation, though? Why this more than anything else and why had he been able to forgive and calm down when he’d first entered the room?

Could it be that it was because he could see the faked emotion? The consulting detective at least had the decency to be honest with him, even when it would cause distress. It was perhaps cynical of him to think that he was being manipulated and the emotions were acted, but he didn’t dare to think it could be anything else. It was safer for his heart that way.

“How does that song go?” he wondered aloud, though still in a whisper. “ _After all it’s not easy banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall?_ Yeah, something like that.” He sighed. “God, I could murder a cuppa right now.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, madam. I didn’t see where I was going. Allow me to retrieve it for you and I’m most apologetic for the inconvenience. Have a pleasant day.”

Greg froze. Even if that deep tenor bordering on baritone he could hear just a few yards behind him wasn’t ingrained on his memory in a way that made his heart stutter, that slightly archaic, pompous way of speaking was a dead give-away. But why the blasted hell would Mycroft Holmes show up in a Tesco’s, much less Lestrade’s usual one? It just did not compute.

He refused to turn around, continuing to put things he would need in his basket, telling himself that it was none of his business what the elder Holmes did and didn’t do. He looked up to locate the last item on his list, groaned as he started to reach for it and had to keep from stiffening when that same voice spoke again, this time just a few inches from his ear. “Please allow me, Detective Inspector.” A long-fingered hand reached up and grabbed the packet of tea that was just a quarter of an inch out of the reach of the silver fox.

The suit-clad man dropped it into the copper’s basket, giving him a smile as he stepped back that for once seemed genuine, but Greg took a bit to return it, as he was still somewhat shocked by the fact that not only was his crush at his local supermarket, looking absurdly out of place, he had practically plastered himself to the brown-eyed man’s back.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice sounded with the thundering his heart was doing and how dry his throat was.” What a...surprise to find you here. Have there been any other unfortunate incidents?” There shouldn’t have been or he would have been informed. Unless, of course, it hadn’t made it to NSY yet, which was a distinct possibility, what with the nature of the people that had been involved in the last one. What other reason could there be for the ‘minor government official’ to be in such a place as this? It just didn’t compute.

For a moment Mycroft actually looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what the inspector was on about. Then understanding seemed to dawn and he flashed another smile, this one rather less sincere and not managing to reach the stormy pale eyes at all. “Oh no, nothing of the sort. I just happened to be passing and realized I was out of mints and tea.”

Greg couldn’t help the eyebrow that rose. That was a poor lie if ever he heard one; apart from the fact that the man hadn’t even bothered to get hold of a shopping basket, there was no way the ginger fox would be anywhere near the area in any sort of capacity – and why on earth would he have any need to buy mints and tea, and at a _supermarket_ to boot? A supermarket that Lestrade just happened to be shopping in, too, though granted it was his regular shopping spot. That left the possibility that Mycroft had specifically sought him out, but he was afraid to think of the possible reason. John had had a point with the brothers’ talent of manipulation and that was one aspect of either of them that he intensely disliked. It had constituted the basis for his arguments with Sherlock on more than one occasion. The fact that it was the older brother who he was in love with who was apparently doing it did not help his stance on the matter in the slightest; quite the reverse, in fact.

“Well, I appreciate you helping me out, Mr. Holmes. There really was no need, but thank you.” He paused. As much he didn’t want to feel like he was being manipulated, he so rarely got a chance to see the man in person and even more rarely outside of his work. His heart pulled at him to make the taller man stay, bizarrely out of place as he was, while his head screamed that it could hardly be for any kind of innocent meeting purpose that he was here and that it would be best to let him go.

Stuck as he was between his heart and his head, Lestrade realized after a moment that the other had spoken and he had absolutely no clue as to what had been said. Cursing himself silently for his inattention, he was forced to ask; “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

Another genuine smile graced the elder Holmes’ face, though it was fleeting. “No need to apologize, inspector. I was just wondering whether you’d allow me to properly thank you for clearing up the...incident yesterday. A dinner, perhaps? I know a little place that does the most delicious tiramisu...and wonderful Italian food.“ The ever-present umbrella twirled in his hand.

The inspector knew his eyes had gone wide in surprise and there was not a thing he could do about it. He merely hoped that the stuttering of his heart and his increased intake of breath wasn’t too noticeable, or that the other man at least would forego to comment on it. There were definite warning bells going off in the back of his head, but they were warring with the wild hope beating in his chest. He knew he shouldn’t, that there was no chance it would be for the reasons Lestrade was hoping for.

The suspicion that it might be for nothing more than manipulative purposes surfaced again and it was most likely what made him calm down and be able to answer, though his heart was still hammering and there was a lump stuck in his throat. “That...is very kind of you, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve already got plans for tonight, however.” The lump didn’t abate in the slightest and he had to swallow heavily.

A dark, stormy expression flitted across Mycroft’s face at that, but it was gone before Greg could sufficiently deduce what it had been. In its place came a smile that seemed genuine enough, but there was something hidden in it that sent shivers down the brown-eyed man’s spine, albeit not entirely pleasant ones.

“Oh, but of course. I had no intention of interrupting your social life.” The tone was cordial as ever, but there was a clipped, disappointed undertone to it that the inspector had to convince himself hadn’t been deliberately added.

Despite all his reservations, Lestrade found himself saying, “You’re...you’re not, really. I don’t have much of a social life, really,” and he managed to keep his grimace at that awkward admission on the inside, “it’s just that I’ve promised to come tonight and...well, how about lunch instead?” And he could curse himself for a lot of things, his foolish hopeful tone, poor choice of words, his pounding heart and his eagerness to go despite his suspicions of manipulation chief among them.

“Arh. It does you credit that you honour your promises. Shall we say tomorrow, then? I’ll have a car brought around for you at midday, if that is convenient?” Again, the brown-eyed man had to convince himself that the undertone he sensed was merely that.

“Uhm, yeah. Yeah, that’ll be fine.” He managed a smile that he hoped didn’t come off as nervous as felt.

“I will see you then, inspector. I’ll look forward to it.” With that, Mycroft smiled slightly and walked towards the exit, legs slightly strutting and umbrella swinging in his hand. There were no signs of either mints or tea about his person.

Greg stared after him, admiring the way the fabric of the suit pulled ever so alluringly across that arse, even half-obscured as it was by the jacket. Then realization of what had just transpired fully hit him and he groaned, which caused one or two other shoppers to glance strangely at him.

“I am well and truly buggered,” he mumbled to himself as he checked his own basket to see if he’d missed anything. Then he hurried through self-checkout and after that home, closing the front door rather more heavily than he ought to. His head and emotions were swimming and swirling and he felt he needed to tell John, although he also very strangely felt that he was cheating on the doctor by agreeing to lunch with the elder Holmes. He just hoped that John would come over that night and he would hurry up.

“Definitely entered the twilight zone,” he muttered, a wry smile twisting his lips despite it all.

 

* * *

 

After answering the text from Greg begging him to actually making it a date that night, John rose from the bed where he’d been sitting for the best part of an hour and made his way downstairs. It was probably for the best that he’d at least check up on Sherlock, even though he was the one who’d been wronged and that the man-child would most likely be lying on the sofa, back facing the room in another huge sulk, the experiment abandoned for the time being in favour of being surly. Ignoring the way his stomach fluttered at the mental image of that long back stretching the material of the dressing, he wondered if perhaps that would mean he could get his pilfered clothes back. His oatmeal coloured cable knit was among them and he really did not want to part with that one.

Only when he actually made it down into the living room, there was no sign of the man. The kitchen was a mess as it was covered with raggedly cut out pieces of his clothes, different kinds of acid stains all over them and there was a horrid stench coming from the sink where one of the other dressing gowns was sizzling as it dissolved. The former soldier couldn’t help the feeling of satisfaction that at the very least something of Sherlock’s had been ruined as well.

“Sherlock?” he called out even though he somehow knew the man wouldn’t be there. He hadn’t heard the front door, but the silence was telling its own story.

When he swept his eyes over the room, something else was off, too. Among the clutter littering their dining room table there stood a rather large box that definitely hadn’t been there the day before. A little apprehensive as he was in regards to boxes by now, the doctor went closer. The box was open and what looked suspiciously like one of his jumpers was peeking out the top.

Without thinking, he pulled the garment out and saw that not only was this not one of his jumpers, but that the box was full of clothes. There were several t-shirts, a couple of jumpers, a pair of dress trousers and a pair of jeans. Also a few new socks and tights that looked like that were going to be rather...snug. The entirety of the garments seemed to be rather expensive, good quality and in the size the blogger took. It could lead to only one conclusion.

“What the devil is he playing at?” he mumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it seems a little slow-going, there's a point to it. I tried to balance the two couples and I still enjoy writing the brothers, together or apart. And to those who're glad about the clothes - John *is* going to have a new suit, I'm afraid.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated (well, loved), *constructive* criticism included


	9. The best of intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken three weeks - I've been out for the count with stomach flu (as if you care) and when I finally got well, I honestly struggled to wrestle it into what I wanted.  
> Then - THANK YOU ALL for the amazing feedback from kudos to subscriptions to especially comments. I treasure them dearly.  
> Still no beta or britpicker

When Sherlock finally arrived home about an hour later, having had another sniping run-in with his brother who informed him that he’d secured a date with the inspector – they’d spent quite some time arguing whether it constituted a date or not, among other things – he found the box still sitting where he’d left it on the table, largely undisturbed. He knew immediately that the doctor had seen it, beside the top jumper having been taken, but other than that the contents remained untouched. Or at least they hadn’t been moved.

Frowning quite deeply at that, the detective was about to shout why John was being obtuse in only taking _one_ item from the box when it was _obvious_ that the entirety of the contents were meant for him – his secret wish to actually see those tight pants on, especially the red ones, he tried to push to the back of his mind – when the words died on his tongue as said doctor stepped out of the bathroom, towelling his hair and wearing a pair of jeans that clearly had been put on before the skin was completely moist-free, if the way the denim clung to it was any indication. Trust John to at least care somewhat about propriety and modesty, even in his own flat. He had even put on a shirt before stepping out, though he had wisely decided to let it remain unbuttoned for the time being, presumably until he’d cooled off enough.

Lost as he momentarily was in the sight before him, it took the taller man a minute or two to realize that his flatmate had spoken his name several times without an answer and was now looking at him with that worried-but-not-I-want-to-know look he’d developed in response to Sherlock’s...behaviour.

“What?” he snapped.

The shorter man mere blinked at him and smiled ever so faintly. “Oh, nothing. I just wasn’t sure what had prompted your retreatment into your mind palace and wanted to make sure I could pass you in safety.” Oh, what a blatant lie. “By the way, you might want to check up on the experiment in the sink. I don’t think Mrs. Hudson is gonna be that chuffed if the plumbing starts corroding.” With that, he tried to move past the curly-haired man, but was stopped by said man moving in front of him again.

“You’re going out.”

“Brilliant deduction yet again, Sherlock, how do you do it?” He made to move past the scarecrow that was his best friend, but was once again stopped.

“But you haven’t had a girlfriend or even one you’d like to shag for a while. I would have spotted the lipgloss stains you never managed to get out of your shirts properly.”

John, surprisingly to Sherlock, didn’t get angry. He merely sighed. “You know, after the stunts you’ve pulled for the last few days I can’t even muster the energy to be annoyed you know that. No, I haven’t. If you must know – and this is mostly to be spared it being deduced in a condescending fashion – I’m going out with Greg for a drink,” and he was sure he must be imagining the dark look that passed across the consulting detective’s face, “so if you’d kindly move, I’ll go and finish dressing.”

But Sherlock wasn’t moving. Instead he laid a hand on John’s shoulder, which made the doctor try to suppress the shiver he got from it. “There is no case on, John. Why would you go meet Lestrade? We’ve got work to do here, after all.” How the younger man managed to look haughty and disinterested even while his eyes bore into the other man, John would never know.

“No, _you’ve_ got work to do, what with the mangling of my clothes for your apparent ‘experiment’ _and_ the clean-up.” He gave a pointed look, trying to tamper down on the anger that was still bubbling inside him. “I, on the other hand, have got nothing on but going out with Greg as I’ve _promised_ him and I intend to keep that promise, because he is a _friend._ ”

 Once again, a dark look flitted across the slightly ethereal features of the detective. It didn’t influence the dismissive, almost sneering tone in his voice, however. “Dull. Reschedule. I need you here.”

John tried to keep both his anger and his, inappropriate in the circumstances, slight...excitement in check as well as the fantasies the words ‘need you here’ conjured in the back of his head. If only. “You don’t, Sherlock, not actually, and even if you did...well, too bad, because I’m going, okay? I swear, you’re like a child and I don’t particularly like being your toy.” In more ways than one, he added bitterly in the safe confinement of his mind.

The stockier man tried to move past his flatmate for the third time, but was stopped by the hand still gripping his shoulder. “Would you please cut it out? It’s not like I’m moving out or bringing a date home so you’d have opportunity to deduce her to shreds or anything.”

“But you will stay the night,” the detective practically spat and if the doctor didn’t know any better, he could have sworn there was anger lurking underneath the usual condescension.

“I- what?” John sputtered for a moment, surprised at the turn the conversation had suddenly taken. “What are you on about?”

“Oh _, please_ , John. You go drinking with Lestrade on a peculiarly regular basis and then you show up here the next morning, with no trace of a hangover. Do tell me whatever you’ve been drinking that is sufficiently incapacitating yet leaves no discernible terrible metabolizing hangover. It would make the most fascinating study, I’m sure.”

The thought of ‘ _Shit, we’ve been found out!’_ ran through John’s mind, sending a chill down his spine along the way, and he was more than a little surprised with himself for not letting his facial features twitch in any indication of his thoughts. Dread mingled with his still bubbling anger and a secret thrill that contrary to what he’d believed, Sherlock had noticed he’d been gone. Not that he’d show any of that either. He took a deep breath, telling himself that the detective hadn’t twigged anything other than he was spending a lot of time with Greg and was merely lashing out because he had to share.

“Thanks for the concern, really. I can’t actually remember the amounts or the types of booze we’ve drunk, but I’ll keep a list for you, how’s that? Now I’m starting to freeze here, Sherlock, so would you please let me past? My striped jumper is back in my room.” This time he did manage to get past, but long fingers grabbed his upper arm halfway down the hall.

Pale eyes narrowed. “But you’ve taken a jumper from the box in the living room. Why?”

The doctor turned so he could glare a bit at the other man, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. “Because I wanted to spite you, okay? Just take one from your box in exchange for the sheer amount of my clothes you’ve destroyed.”

It was quiet for a bit as both men continued to stare at each other. Then; “Idiot.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put it back in a minute, when I’m dressed. I haven’t even worn it.” Why he felt the need to justify his actions, he honestly had no idea.

“No. You’re an idiot because the clothes are for _you. Obviously_!”

Even though he had the vaguest of inklings that honestly bordered more on hopeful, wishful thinking that the clothes had been meant for him, John couldn’t help the slow blinking of his eyelids in an effort to take it in. “You. Bought...clothes. For me.”

“Obvious.” There was no need for an actual roll of the eyes as the voice conveyed it clearly. “Don’t try my patience by forcing me to repeat myself. I said I would and I have.”

The doctor was utterly stunned and uttered the first word that came to mind. “Why?”

“I just said.”

“Sherlock, you keeping promises when it doesn’t serve you any kind of purpose is...” the shorter man faltered and trailed off, his voice turning into a mere mumble; “Bugger, I can see what he meant about the twilight zone.”

If the detective heard the last bit, he didn’t show it. “We’re going for a suit fitting as well. The appointment is tomorrow around noon. I expect you to at least have returned and be presentable at least an hour prior.”

“Okay, now something is _definitely_ going on. This is your way of apologizing, I know it is. _Why_ are you apologizing? Should I be worried that...” he trailed off again as some sort of realization seemed to strike. His tone became flat as did his eyes. “Ah. You’re acting again. Good one, Sherlock, well done. You had me fooled there for a minute. Almost couldn’t distinguish it from your usual behaviour this time; you’re definitely improving. Really, you should phone up RADA, you’d do great there.” Why he was surprised or affected by it at all was a mystery he couldn’t crack at the current time. “Now I’m going to go finish dressing and then I’m leaving.”

For a minute Sherlock was frozen as the ex-soldier pushed past him and disappeared into his room. John thought that he was acting; no, it wasn’t just that – he thought he was manipulating the smaller man by means of acting. But he’d been utterly sincere and hadn’t even tried to coat his words in any way. Surely John would...it just didn’t compute. He was trying to make John see he _could_ be considerate and caring without being told to, so that he’d see the younger Holmes as the far superior choice as a romantic partner than _Gregory Lestrade_ and his flatmate did apparently not believe his sincerity in the slightest. Worse than that, it seemed that he was still intent on going through with the date – the pale-eyed man did not believe the ‘going drinking’ excuse as he knew what they’d been doing on previous such occasions and it actually _hurt_ to know that not only would his doctor prefer the DI’s company over the consulting detective’s, he actually lied about it, continually. That he’d practically been rejected in his offer of replacement clothes as well didn’t help in the slightest – but that, at least, he could fix. Or so he hoped.

"John!” he called, striding down the hall until he reached the doctor’s bedroom door. It was closed, but he for once knew better than to burst in and instead chose to speak through the door. “John, don’t be an idiot, please. Why else would I purchase clothes that are so clearly meant for you if not to make up for what I’ve ruined? It was meant as an apology and I would hope you’d take it as such.” Without any conscious thought, his voice had softened, sounding ever so slightly pleading, to his surprise.

To the curly-haired man’s definite and greater surprise, the door opened until there was just a sliver between it and the frame, allowing him to see a bit of the doctor’s face on the other side, the eye visible guarded and...hurt? “I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out you actually are acting, but God help me, I forgive you. Now, please go away before I change my mind and punch you.” With that, the door closed again.

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Then as he stood facing the closed door, he felt an ever so small smile grow on his face. He could not pinpoint why, but he felt that if John could forgive him this and at least attempt to believe his sincerity, there just _might_ be a hope for something more.  It would be best, of course, if he could convince John to stay with him at all times and _not_ going anywhere near Lestrade, unless Sherlock was there as well, but one thing at a time. Small steps and all that.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re late,” was the first words the DI uttered when he opened the door to the doctor.

When he’d been allowed through the door and hall into the living room, the silver-haired man following close on his heels, John turned and sighed even as he smiled. “I don’t remember setting an actual time for coming round, Greg...but seeing how ragged you look, I feel like I should apologize. Did he do something to you?” Unconsciously his voice had lowered into the soft voice he used when dealing with children at the surgery.

Lestrade actually looked confused for a moment. “What? Oh. No, no, he didn’t...well, not like that, anyway. Confused the hell out of me, but that’s the Holmes brothers in a nutshell, isn’t it?” He gave a small grin.

The shorter man smiled back. “You said it. Did more than confuse you, though, if the confusing sputter you were uttering on the phone was anything to go by, not to mention the state of your hair right now.” Without thinking properly about what he was doing, John reached up and smoothed a hand through the silver-stained hair.

Greg closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of those slightly stubby, calloused fingers running against his scalp. They snapped open again as the fingers were abruptly removed and found the doctor looking at him with an apologetic smile, hand still half-way outstretched.

“Why did you stop?” the silver fox asked, surprised at the amount of petulance in his voice. He was even more surprised at the startled surprise he read in the other’s eyes.

“Because...I really have no business stroking your hair, do I?” John answered; the surprise and apology were also evident in his tone.” Not when you’ve actually got a date with Mycroft.”

At that, the inspector pulled a face.” Well, that’s the problem.”

“What, it isn’t a date?”

“Yes...well, no...yes...perhaps...I don’t know!” Lestrade ran his own hand through his hair, mussing it up enough to get it pretty much back to how it had looked when he’d first opened the door. “That’s what the problem is. I don’t know! I keep going from thinking that it _is_ a date and that he might, just _might_ harbour at least some kind of feelings for me besides being grateful that I provide his brother with something to do. That it could be...could be something more.” He took a deep, somewhat shuddering breath and continued. “But then I remember who it is I’m dealing with and how strangely he’s behaved – they’ve both behaved for the last couple of weeks and then I worry that I’m just being pulled along, that he’s got some ulterior motive or is just trying to manipulate me for the hell of it, which is much more plausible, being in love with the guy notwithstanding. That hurts to think of and so I try to convince myself that he looked earnest when I met him and why else would he show up at my local supermarket, of all places? Round and round and round it goes and it’s driving me _nuts_!” The hair got some more, rather vigorous tugs, leaving it in even worse disarray.

For a moment or two John confined himself to merely standing there, thinking. Then he sighed once more and went to hug the other man, if only briefly before letting go again. “I wish I had something clever to say, Greg, or knew how you should react or behave, but... I don’t know either. It’s no consolation, I know, but I’ve just come from an encounter with Sherlock that’s been about as confusing as yours.”

“Yeah, you said something about him going through your drawers and stealing your clothes in order to put acid on those as well?”

John barked a short, mostly humourless laugh. “Living with Sherlock, that really isn’t what surprised me; it could almost be considered par for the course. It was more that he then went out and apparently bought me new clothes _and_ he’s booked a suit fitting for tomorrow – and to top it off, he put it as though I was thick for not realizing that it was _obviously_ an apology.” He ran a hand over his face. “And berk in love that I was – well, am – I bloody well forgave him.”

“I hear you, mate, I really do.” Lestrade went to pull the doctor back into a semi-hug and a short snog. “And just for the record, it is actually, weirdly enough, a sort of consolation. Kind of sums up this ‘relationship’, doesn’t it?” He tried for a smile.

The former soldier regarded the silver fox with an answering smile and then he pulled a face as he seemed to remember something else. “Oh, shit. I forgot.”

 “What?” Greg asked with slight alarm as he got a good look at his expression.

It was John’s turn to mess up his hair by running nervous fingers through it. “Sherlock knows. He knows that I’ve been coming here and...how did he put it, staying the night. Without having an appreciatively large hangover, either. He even tried to prevent me from going out of the flat.” He paused, brows wrinkling in thought. “Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” he continued as his breathing calmed down somewhat, remembering his line of thought from earlier in the day. “Him finding out I’ve been coming over here isn’t in and of itself an indicator of anything. He’s probably merely in a strop because he has to share his toy...”

“But with Sherlock and his...skills, it isn’t unreasonable to assume that he might well have discovered that something else is going on,” the inspector finished for him, a shudder going through him as that realization slammed into another one. “Crap! What if that’s the reason I’ve been asked out by Mycroft? In order to be either mocked or grilled over this?”

The smaller man grabbed the arm of the silver fox, getting him to look him in the eye. “Calm down, Greg, please. We don’t _know_ that. I get why you’re being suspicious – hell, we discussed the possibility of manipulation yesterday – especially given...well, who, but unless you want to cancel the whole thing, then there’s not a whole lot we can do about it besides speculation without any hope of confirmation and that isn’t going to help anybody, is it?” His voice was calm and reassuring, to him almost surprisingly so, but as he spoke he realized it was true.

After a minute of staring at the man holding onto him, Lestrade sagged ever so slightly as what the doctor had said sank in and smiled in gratitude as the tension slowly lessened its hold on his body. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right – and gods, no, I don’t want to cancel. Even if it all comes crashing down and it probably will, I really want at least the hope and the chance to try it.” He then went to kiss the stockier man soundly on the lips. “John H. Watson, you are a marvel, you know that?”

John grinned back at him. “Of course, but that doesn’t make hearing it acknowledged any less gratifying. Now, how about that dinner before we go all maudlin again?”

“Sure. But first let me show you...” and here he gave the doctor another good, thorough snogging that had the smaller man back up against the nearest wall...”how much I appreciate your brilliance,” he finished as they parted, a boyish, cheeky grin breaking through his still worried demeanour.

“Gods, Mycroft has absolutely no idea what he is missing out on,” John mumbled as he unconsciously licked his lips.

“Neither does Sherlock. ‘Three Continents Watson’, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes – and I worked hard for that name.”

“Uh-huh.  What is it with you and horrible puns? Come on, I’m starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said, it's been a struggle to get this into a proper shape and I'm sorry if it shows or the pace is still slow. I hope it's been worth the wait, after all.  
> Feedback is loved and treasured, as always


	10. It begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - who here thought this one had been abandoned? Who cares? Apparently more people than I thought. Thank you :) I've lost the document with this twice, had to rewrite etc. In the end I've finally wrestled it into something, 10 months later, but here you go. Sincere apologies.  
> THANK you to all of those who actually expressed a wish to see this continued (and for every kind of feedback in general). You are the sweetest people.
> 
> No beta or britpicker, mistakes, continuity errors and so on are all mine

“Smug does not suit you, Mycroft.”

“Oh, on the contrary, yes, it does, brother mine and that is why it’s driving you absolutely mad. Always has, hasn’t it? Anyway, I think I am more than justified if I do happen to be a little smug,” Mycroft answered, the smirk gracing his face growing wider in response.

“So far all you’ve accomplished is getting him to agree to share lunch with you, which isn’t exactly a milestone. As I think the colloquial term goes, you haven’t even got to first base. For all you know, he could just be trying to humour you out of politeness.” Though the words were harsh, they lacked the normal bite to them.

The smirk slid off the elder Holmes’ face ever so slowly to be replaced with a carefully blank expression that didn’t fool the younger brother at all. They were sitting in the two rather comfortable armchairs that was part of the room they’d been doing their surveillance in, though at the moment the screen was resolutely blank. There wasn’t much point in having the cameras be on when it was clear that the apartment was empty.

“I am aware of that possibility, Sherlock, and the likelihood of it being true. I also know what they got up to when John arrived at Gregory’s home. It...hardly put my worries to rest; quite the opposite, in fact. But what would you have me do? Nothing I have tried has worked, but has instead seemed to pull them closer together. At this point in time I am running out of options that would not break several human rights acts.”

A snort burst forth from the younger brother, apparently spontaneous, and the politician turned to see his brother fighting a smile, which in turned prompted a twitch of his own lips. “Well, yes. Quite an immaterial point, to us at least, but I very much doubt that it would endear us to either of them.”

“Not anymore than any of our previous attempts have, at least. But you are right, even as it pains me to admit it. We _are_ out of options that can hope to be effective and aren’t direct, overt ones and in that, your offer of lunch to Lestrade reaches the goal.”

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow at that. “If you had not demanded that John come out with you to get a new suit fitted for him _at the exact same time_ as the time I have arranged to meet and dine with the Detective Inspector I am sure that comment would have the appropriate sting.” He smiled mock-sweetly and very briefly. As it is, you are merely, what is the phrase? Calling the kettle black while being a pot yourself?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, face unreadable. ”I cannot decide whether buying you an actual proverb book would be beneficial or not.” He paused, thinking. “No, best not. I don’t believe they sell anything fit for a Jane Austen character,” he smirked and then looked at his phone. “We’d best be going. I need to be back at Baker Street before John comes stumbling home and you’d best smarten yourself up as well. You’ll want to look your best for him, after all.”

“If we are making comparisons to early 19th century romantic authors and their characters, I will say you fit the character of Mr. Darcy rather well, brother dear,” Mycroft answered pleasantly enough, by his standards at least, as he followed the lankier man out of the room, knowing this was mild for his brother and that he actually meant well.

“I only hope that means you’d be cast in the role of that sycophantic priest,” the answer came as Sherlock strode out ahead, long coat once more flowing out behind him by the speed of his steps.

“He was a clergyman, not a priest,” the politician corrected softly, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he followed his brother out the door.

If Sherlock was feeling hopeful enough for his jabs to be as mild as this, his chances of convincing John of his genuine romantic intentions and how he was a better choice for the doctor than the inspector ever could be – and the ginger fox didn’t attempt to contemplate that his opinion on that matter was in any way biased – would seem to be pretty high.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, god. John, it’s a date.”

“Yes, Greg, it _is_ a date; we’ve been through that. Several times, in fact. The next words out of your mouth are going to be either ‘I can’t believe it’s an actual date’, ‘Shit, I hope I don’t embarrass myself in front of him’ or ‘He’s setting me up for something very unpleasant’.”

The inspector stopped the seemingly endless process of pulling at his hair in worry and smoothing it down in an effort to look good, unfortunately at the stage of pulling, turning around to face the doctor with a surprised look on his face. Then, after getting a raised eyebrow in response, he broke into the type of grin John had secretly labelled ‘Self-conscious Smile of Embarrassment’ and which strangely enough suited Greg really well. Well enough, at least, to set the doctor’s heart fluttering ever so slightly.

To cover that particular response, John cleared his throat, offering a small smile in return. He reached up and smoothed the salt and pepper coloured hair into some semblance of a presentable state. The trouble was that, given his short stature and subsequently shorter reach of arms, doing so brought him rather close to the other man’s face. The doctor cleared his throat again as he realized that, along with feelings of déjà vu, and hurriedly stood back.

Much to John’s surprise, though, the detective inspector stepped right up close again and landed a thorough, though closed-lipped kiss on his lips, smiling as he stepped back again.

“Might be the last chance I get,” Greg offered by way of an explanation, giving a small shrug along with the smile. “What can I say; you’ve grown enormously on me in the last couple of months and however this turns out, I’m real glad I got the idea.”

There was unaccountably a lump in John’s throat. “Seems like not all things thought of in a drunken haze turns out to be a bad idea when sober, then,” he quipped as he tried to combat the lump. Then he gave the other man a small push, attempting sternness. “Now would you kindly _get a move on_? I dread to think what will happen if you’re not down in front of the building a little earlier than you’ve agreed on. No, actually, I can picture that perfectly well and I _don’t_ feel like being visually grilled when he comes up here and finds the both of us.”

“God, there’s a thought,” the inspector mumbled, becoming a little distraught at the mention of it. Once more he raked a hand through his hair, managing to muss it up again, which brought a quirk to the doctor’s lips. “Right, right, I’m off. Wish me luck.” He leant forward slightly, seemingly unconsciously.

John met him halfway, but only gave the cheek a peck of a kiss, like a wife kissing her husband goodbye for the day. In a way, that was not that far off.

He watched Lestrade run out the door and sighed as he checked his watch. There really was no time to get sappy, sentimental or sad. Instead of being at home by eleven as Sherlock had demanded, he’d managed to convince the man they’d meet at noon outside the store where the detective insisted he was going for his first fitting.

“As if I actually need a bleeding suit, tailor-made or not,” he muttered to himself as he closed the front door behind him, locking it as he went. “The man is dramatic enough on his own – not like we need _two_ flash gits. Wonder what the devil he’s playing at.”

Then he started running to the nearest tube station to catch a train that’d get him there on time. He half-expected to turn up and find out Sherlock hadn’t bothered getting up from the living room sofa, but that didn’t mean it was a good idea to be late.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, Inspector. So pleased you could spare the time.”

_As if I’m the one who has to juggle national politics, bureaucratic meltdowns and roadblocks, criminal masterminds and wayward brothers on a daily basis_ , Greg thought dryly as he watched the man unfold himself from the black car that had pulled up to the kerb. _I only barely manage the last two._

“Not at all,” he said, managing a smile that was genuine despite his nervousness. “Having a car brought round to drive me really wasn’t necessary, though.”

“I do disagree,” Mycroft countered and smiled slightly in turn. If Lestrade didn’t know better, he’d say the man was raking his eyes up and down his form, taking in the suit from the anonymous giver. An odd, unidentifiable look flashed across the angular features, and then the ever-present brolly was swung out just enough to indicate a direction. “Shall we?”

“Lead the way, Mr. Holmes.” Greg took the opportunity to admire the view as the government official walked ahead of him into what was a rather posh affair of an Italian restaurant. They were quickly seated, even though the restaurant was quite full given that it was only lunchtime. The inspector supposed that status and familiarity just _might_ have played a role there.

As he watched the other man surreptitiously over the top of the menu card while attempting to look like he was making a choice of what to eat, the silver-haired man couldn’t help the suspicion that there was something else going on; the vicious circle of thought he’d had the night before surfacing once more, though he attempted to stamp it down.

He was slightly startled when a hand was placed on his wrist and he looked up into Mycroft’s usually penetrating stare. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I believe the waiter would like to know what you want to order,” the elder Holmes said with what was, for him, slight concern in his voice. He then flashed a brief, insincere smile at the waiter, who nodded in turn, pen poised.

“Ah. Yes. Yes, of course, sorry. I’ll...have the linguini with scallops, I think,” Greg said as he regained his composure somewhat, eyes quickly scanning the menu again.

He flashed an apologetic grin at the waiter and turned to look at his dining companion as the waiter walked off. “I’m sorry about that. My mind was...I mean, it wasn’t that...I didn’t mean to be rude.” It seemed he was good at stepping in it and being awkward, embarrassingly enough.

“I can assure you you weren’t,” the ginger fox said and gave him another smile. A genuine smile, too, and the Inspector were struck by how much it brightened up the normally very stoic face. He swallowed.

“That’s...good. Good.” He looked down at the table and took a deep breath. He did not want to embarrass himself or sound like a damn woman, flustered and uncertain. Whatever the reason for the invitation, he would make the best of it and to hell with the consequences. Or so he told himself.

When Lestrade looked back up, not only did he find the other still looking at him, and rather intently at that, he was still smiling as well, softly, almost charmingly. Greg’s heart did the strangest combination of fluttering and clenching at the same time; the former in delight and the latter in dread.

“So...,” the inspector began, looking Mycroft in the eye, “this is very nice, but it really is far over the top in the way of a thank you for such a minor thing. Not that I don’t appreciate you taking the time out of your no doubt busy schedule for thanking me.”

Greg took a deep breath, readying himself to ask the question he’d been agonizing over. Might as well get it over with; much as he’d like to just sit and enjoy this short time they had, he also knew that his doubts about the actual reasons for it would continue to churn inside his mind for the duration of the meal, ruining his enjoyment of it regardless. That asking might ruin any chance he’d have even to get to see Mycroft, let alone spend actual time with him, was one he firmly pushed to the back of his mind; the idea of it being all an act of manipulation stung enough to allow him to do so.

“I just wondered why. What is the real reason?”

 

* * *

 

 

John half-expected to arrive at the front of the store and be left there waiting until he eventually got fed up and stomped back home, more than likely finding his flatmate sprawled out on the sofa, completely oblivious to their agreement. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had done something to that effect.

When he did arrive, however, he not only found Sherlock standing on the pavement – even from a distance, the combination of long coat, dark hair and blue scarf was unmistakable – the detective was actually tapping his foot with an air of impatience, looking both pleased and annoyed when he spotted John.

“About time,” he grumbled once the smaller man got in earshot of him. He opened his mouth as if to continue his grumblings, but then he stopped and his face smoothed out in a way that told John something was up.

“With fifteen minutes ‘til noon I am not late, but go and head and grumble if that’s what you want,” John said with a grumble of his own as he came to as stop next to his friend. He looked up, eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s definitely better than that practiced, smooth mask you’re wearing now.”

Sherlock looked down at him, face contorting slightly in surprise. Then a big smile broke out on his face. ”Very good, John. You’re definitely improving in your observational skills. Now, shall we? On time here is at least ten minutes before the specified time and though they’re more lenient towards me, it wouldn’t do to have you make a bad first impression.”

The doctor followed his friend as he stalked into the store, but was forced to stop when Sherlock came to a halt almost just inside the door. He was about to ask about their stopping when he saw a man, shorter than he was and greying somewhat, come towards them, a big smile lighting up his face when he recognized Sherlock.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes!” he beamed, holding out a hand. “So nice to see you again – it really has been far too long! Though that shows you look after – oh and good morning to you, sir, I do beg your pardon for not seeing you straight away. I’m the proprietor, Alphonzo Stein, for my sins.”

John took the hand that was offered, noting in the back of his mind that while the man had a camp air to him and a rather dainty hand for a man, the handshake itself was firm, strong and confident.

“John Watson and it’s no problem,” he answered with a smile, beginning to sense that maybe this would turn out bearable after all. “I’m used to it.”

This only made the other smile broader. “Ah, but of course. The man in need – I did wonder why there was a set of measurements with the appointment as your Mr. Holmes have had his measurements down in our books for years. Do come this way and we will find a cut to suit you.” With that, he turned and walked towards the far corner of the shop.

The doctor stood still, however, as his mind spluttered in confusion and anger, going from ‘ _He is not_ my _Mr. Holmes!’_ over ‘ _What does he mean, need?_ ’‘, before finally settling on, “Why does he already have my measurements? Wait, no – how is it _you_ already know my measurements to be sent to them?” It took effort not to shout.

“I observe, John,” Sherlock answered simply, unperturbed, looking him straight in the eye. “I destroyed your suit and I said I’d make it up to you. Having to spend an appointment getting your measurements when I already knew them would be a waste of time, so I took care of it beforehand.”

He put a hand on the small of John’s back, trying to urge him forward. That in itself was odd enough, as he normally would just have followed the proprietor with his usual stride, but the fact that it felt like the fingers spread and started caressing slightly as they moved was odder still and sent small shivers through John from the point of contact.

John led himself be led deeper into the store, arousal and apprehension warring in his gut. This had the potential of turning out wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably shows the lapses in time and rewrites and for that, I am sorry (the general plot is as it was originally intended, though). Also I apologize for the comparative short length of it, all things considered, but hopefully the next part will make up for it and balance the two sides better.
> 
> As always - feedback is treasured


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg tries to get the real reason for the lunch appointment out of Mycroft and John has an...interesting appointment at the tailor's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I honestly didn't expect another 3 months to go by until this chapter was done. But then writer's block and a few bouts of depression you can't really schedule for, can you? If I haven't been in touch either, blame that as well. Still, here's a new chapter and we're almost at the end, my friends.
> 
> The feedback and love I get from your kudos and your comments really has been a godsend, though, so thank you all tremendously! You make it worth it all :) <3
> 
> Same disclaimers as always apply

Greg was rather impressed with himself on how casual he managed to sound, like it was just another question, as important as asking whether he would like another glass of wine.

Mycroft looked at him. For a moment a strange expression crossed his features; then his face smoothed into an annoyingly blank, though pleasant one.

“I apologize if I have led you to believe there was an ulterior motive in this,” he answered, his voice a little too smooth. “I can see why you could think this might seem an excessive thank you for such a seemingly small thing, but then, it is not. You have been instrumental in keeping my brother from slipping back into his...old ways for years without any gratitude or acknowledgement.” He gave a smile, a smile that, again, seemed genuine. “In comparison to that, I would say this is a very minor way of showing that gratitude.”

Neither the smile nor the apparently sincere look in the other’s eyes was enough to deflect the inspector’s observation that once more, Mycroft had managed to fulfil the criteria of his question without actually giving him an answer. Not that Greg didn’t know that that particular skill served the man well in his work in his...minor government position, but it was frustrating beyond all hell to be on the receiving end of it. Especially when the question was one that had been going around and around in his brain ever since he had been asked out back at the supermarket.

Furthermore, the fact that he had the cheek to evade the real question like that rankled and stung. Probably mostly since it bore into the fears he had been harbouring; Mycroft really was playing him for a fool that couldn’t tell when he was being lied to and manipulating him.

The feeling of being made a fool of, and so very casually too, was part of the reason the inspector shot the other a glare and put down his wine glass. He knew he had promised himself he would make the best of this opportunity; enjoy whatever came and deal with the consequences later. But he was no fool and would not be treated as such, in love or not.

“You know,” he began, voice surprisingly calm to his own ears, “however flattered your dining companion might be by your presence, lying to their face so damn blatantly and _nonchalantly_ is more than likely going to piss them off.”

A slight, nonplussed frown passed over the features of the elder Holmes. It was replaced with an equally slight widening of the eyes as Lestrade stood up and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. Mycroft opened his mouth, but was cut off before he could say anything.

“The strange thing is, though, that I’m not pissed off.” He wasn’t. When he thought about it, he found that he really wasn’t. He felt dejected, hurt and knowing that he was more than likely overreacting, but not angry. “Not really. I know I should be, being treated as if I am gullible and naive – and not just on this occasion – another person to be manipulated. But then, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Push people around like chess pieces to suit your needs. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. A Holmes is a Holmes.”

He took a deep breath to keep his tone even, keeping his eyes fixed on Mycroft. “What gets me is that you think I can’t spot it when you do it. Fair enough, I am not a genius like your or your brother, I get that and I am perhaps sometimes a bit slow on the uptake, I’ll grant you that as well. But I _am_ a copper, despite claims to the contrary, and I also deal, as you said yourself, _with_ said brother of yours on a depressingly regular basis and he does have little tells and you seem to share at least some of them.”

Lestrade took a few steps forward so that he was close up and almost touching the other man, resisting the ache in his body to close those last few inches between them. The expression on the ginger fox’s face was dark, but otherwise unreadable, though Greg didn’t much care at that moment.

“I do _not_ like being played for a dull idiot who can be lied to and manipulated just because you feel like it,” he said, voice flat and tinged with warning. “If that is what you take me for, then I don’t really think we ought to continue with this...appointment.” He fished out some notes from his wallet and placed them on the table. “That should cover my half of the bill. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I have somewhere else I need to be.”

With that, he walked out of the restaurant, not bothering to look back at the other man. He took care to walk as he normally did, out the door and down the street, trying to calm down inwardly as he walked. Eventually he did, only for questions to invade his mind instead.

Was he overreacting? Was his behaviour justified? Had he shot himself in the foot with regards to getting to spend time with Mycroft? Well, he most certainly had shot himself in the foot with that, since he had clearly stated he didn’t want to deal with the man after something like that and it seemed unlikely that the man would want anything to do with him either.

Had he overreacted, then? After all, it was only the one lie, however blatant. He had to deal with liars all the time in the job; it was his job to be able to spot when people were trying to pull a fast one on him. He was used to it and used to the attempts at manipulation, so what was he getting so upset about, exactly? It wasn’t as if the things he had been worrying about – that the purpose of the date had been to extract information or mock him over his feelings – had had a chance to happen. He had stormed out at the first indication that he was being manipulated, hadn’t he?

Due to his clamouring thoughts occupying his mind, he only realized he was about to walk into a lamp post moments before he did and managed to swerve in time, earning him a few amused glances from other pedestrians, all of which he paid no mind.

But it wasn’t _just_ the lie, was it? It was the realization that to Mycroft, he was something to be manipulated like everyone else, another chess piece to be placed to the best possible advantage. That his fears had been justified and it didn’t even matter.

He had no idea what he would do now. It wasn’t as though he didn’t still have feelings for the guy and those weren’t snuffed out just like that, but it would seem that he would learn to have to live with it. Without comfort, too, if it worked out for John somehow, which he sincerely hoped. He wasn’t cruel.

Pulling out his phone, he sent John a text.

_I’m heading home. Caught him out in a blatant lie, think manipulation is a given. Might possibly have overreacted. Hope it’s going well on your end._

_Greg_

He dropped the phone back into his pocket and, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, increased the pace of walking. Right now all he wanted was to go home and get suitably rat-arsed.

 

* * *

 

 

The beep of an incoming text was loud in the relative quiet of the changing room stall John had been pushed into, even from the distance of where it lay in his trouser pocket on the stool. John cursed under his breath, but it didn’t seem to have gotten the attention of either the shop owner or Sherlock, so he went over and fished out his phone.

As he read the text from Greg, he let out a sigh he couldn’t have suppressed even if he had been aware of it. He felt for the man and if he was overreacting, then it was surely well justified.

Resolving to ask for a proper explanation in person instead of over a text, he put the phone back and shrugged on the jacket of the suit he was supposed to be trying on, then adjusted the waistcoat he was already wearing. If he wasn’t out soon, he really wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to rip open the curtain, regardless of his state of dress or possible lack thereof.

It was the fourth suit he was trying on and he was getting more than fed up. For John, trying on clothes had never been a particularly favoured pastime. He was a practical man that wore things equally practical and comfortable and so was quite happy to pull shirts, jumpers and jeans in the right sizes down from the racks whenever Marks and Sparks had a sale, not bothering to try them on before he bought them. He knew what fit and what he liked, so what was the point?

He had been ready to just go with the first one he’d tried on and get the whole thing over with, but as soon as he’d stepped out, Sherlock had taken one look and had shaken his head and so it was back to the changing room. When it kept going like that, John had been grateful for Mr. Stein and his unflappable, genial manner. It kept him from snapping at his flatmate’s insufferable being, poised as he was in one leather armchair.

“I swear, if you say no to this too and don’t even bother giving a reason as to why, I am walking out of here,” he groused as he stepped out. “No offense meant to your...establishment, Mr. Stein,” he added quickly, flashing an apologetic smile.

The small proprietor returned his smile with an understanding one. “None taken, Doctor Watson, I quite understand. Though, if I may say so, Mr. Holmes is rather more patient than is normally his custom.”

He gave John an appraising look. “Very good, very good. The length of the jacket is more suitable than the others, sits better on your waist, perhaps pull it in a bit more, accentuate that...broaden the lapels...the cut of the trousers...” He trailed off into a mumble that John realized was voiced thoughts and so he just stood there, waiting for his friend to cut it down and send him back to try on another.

But Sherlock was silent, even though it was clear that he was paying attention to what was going on around him and not merely looking in the general direction while he was off gallivanting around his Mind Palace. Every movement the tailor made was followed intently by the pale eyes and, if the doctor was any judge at all, his assessments were being assessed in turn.

As the silence dragged on, apart from Mr. Stein’s mumbles as he walked around John, planting small pins as he went, and the pale eyes fixed and stayed on him, John started to feel a tiny bit uneasy. Not that he wasn’t used to the scrutinizing gaze of his flatmate, but it was normally a short, cold and calculating one, enough to assess whatever he needed to at that particular moment and that was it. A mere moment was sufficient more often than not.

Now, though...now the gaze kept lingering and though the calculation was still in there, it was anything but cold. In fact, if the doctor didn’t know better, he would say there was a warmth in them as well as a kind of hunger. It sent a pleasant shiver down his spine and made him worry all at the same time. He wanted it to mean something, but what it did mean he wasn’t sure. Add to that the fact that it seemed like Greg really had been played by Mycroft, which in turn made the likelihood of John being messed with as well all the greater, and it would be difficult _not_ to worry.

There was another noise signifying an incoming text, but this time it sounded from the coat pocket of the consulting detective. Sherlock stopped his scrutiny of John long enough to read the text, type out a reply with an air of irritation and shove the phone back.

John was spared a second round of being stared at by the tailor coming back up in front of him. The small, pudgy yet strangely striking man grasped his shoulders and gave him a smile and a small wink after glancing at the lanky man in the chair who was looking at him in turn.

“I think we have it, Doctor,” he said. “That is of course if Mr. Holmes agrees,” he added, casting another glance at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

John held his breath, ready to be dismissed. The uneasy butterflies in his stomach increased at the continued silence.

Then Sherlock stood up, propelled upright as if he was a jack-in-the-box. He walked up close, eyes narrowed as he took another, closer look. He then turned to the proprietor with a smile that, if the doctor didn’t know his friend so bleeding well, looked absolutely delightedly pleased and, more to the point, _genuine._

“You are quite right, Mr. Stein. With the adjustments to the design you mentioned, it is quite simply perfect. I trust that if we get two, you will find a suitable set of cufflinks, a few ties and shirts to match?”

The tailor looked mock-indignant. “But of course, Mr. Holmes. I should be offended that you have to ask.”

“Quite. Yet you aren’t.”

“Hang on, hang _on_ ,” John exclaimed, slightly bowled over by surprise and a more than a little annoyed that he wasn’t even being asked for his opinion on the matter. “What the heck do you mean ‘two’? We are not getting two suits, let alone all the other stuff. You ruined one suit, so you buy me one new suit. That was the deal we made. No less and definitely no more.”

Ignoring the quizzical and somewhat horrified look of Mr. Stein, the younger Holmes, looking quite unperturbed, raised an eyebrow at his friend. “I do believe the expression is ‘no more, no less’, John, and we are most certainly buying more than the one suit. All men need at least two suits – _proper_ suits, not those ill-fitting things people wear – and a suit is incomplete without ‘all the other stuff’, as you so eloquently put it. Besides,” he added more quietly with a smile that made pleasant butterflies join the others in John’s stomach, “you look far too handsome in that not to buy at least two and make you wear them.”

The former soldier knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. Why on earth was Sherlock going out of his way to not only replace what he had destroyed, but giving him more than was needed _and_ complimenting him on how he looked in the suit? There had to be something going on. It might be that he was being overly suspicious about the whole thing due to prior experience, but he was getting the distinct impression that his friend was trying something on and he had better be on his toes. All the same, the compliment did send his heart to beating a little faster.

Sherlock seemed to take John’s silence as acquiescence. “How quickly can you have it all finished?” he asked, turning to Mr. Stein. “We do need at least one suit soon.”

_Oh, do we now?_ the doctor wondered in his mind as the tailor answered the question. _Whatever would we need one for soon?_

Before he had a chance to voice that question out loud, he felt a hand on the small of his back, urging him back towards the changing room. He was a little stunned still and only managed to open his mouth at the curtain, but that turned into a squawk of indignation as the consulting detective attempted to follow him in.

“Okay, that’s it, Sherlock,” he protested, turning on his friend who looked innocent in a way that would irk anyone. “I’ve put up with quite a lot today, but I need some damn _privacy_ in here. No, out with you. Out!” With that, he practically shoved the man out, closing the curtain after him a little more forcefully than was advisable.

He undressed and redressed in his normal clothes as quickly as possible. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been just a little thrilled by the feel of those long fingers and how possessive they felt, but he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop and worrying exactly what kind of shoe it was going to be.

Emerging back out into the store, he was just in time to overhear his friend agreeing the colours and the delivery time with the owner, who turned to John when he spotted him.

“Ah, there you are, Doctor!” he exclaimed, walking up close. “Good, good. I do hope it’s not been too gruelling an experience for you. Getting your first bespoke suit can be rather daunting.” He leant in a little closer and lowered his voice. “Especially when you have the...mixed blessing of...being under the wing of a Holmes. You have my sympathies, sir – and my best wishes.” He gave a small wink and a soft, understanding smile. John found himself smiling back. He had liked the small man from the off, but a comment like that made him all the more sympathetic and it was nice to have someone else who...well, understood.

“Thank you," he said, meaning it wholeheartedly.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock was standing at the door, looking expectant and slightly impatient. In other words, rather like he did in similar situations, which was somehow comforting.

Following his flatmate out the door after saying goodbye to Mr. Stein, he stopped when another text alert sounded. It was another one from Lestrade.

_Think I might have screwed up a bit. How many pills can you down with alcohol again?_

"Oh, shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I evil? Possibly, as I had thought to go a little further, but it seemed to fit with ending the chapter there.  
> Sorry to the Mystraders that we didn't spend a lot of time with them and what happened, but there is a point and it will have a hopefully satisfying resolution.
> 
> Feedback is, as always, dearly loved and treasured if the criticism is constructive


	12. Caring for others

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As John and Sherlock rush to help Greg, a new light is shed on many things and a shift starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit...another long wait, I am deeply sorry, everyone. I had literally only written a few paragraphs due to the same issues as last time up until last week. Sorry, hopefully it won't happen again.
> 
> That said, you continue to blow me away with the kudos, the comments and especially the kind words in those comments. It's...treasure, really, to have and get them, so...thank you once again. I'm really humbled by it :3
> 
> Same disclaimers as always

It took some time for Sherlock to realize that John was no longer following behind him and he turned to see what was keeping him. He frowned a bit when he saw that his flatmate was looking at his phone, his face drawn into lines of worry that aged his face in a way that Sherlock would always disapprove of.

“Come _on_ , John. We haven’t got all day.”

“Ehm, actually...I have to go.”The doctor finally looked up, the worry even more evident in his eyes. “It seems Greg has a problem.”

Sherlock looked at his flatmate for a few moments, blinking as if in astonished incomprehension. Then his face contorted into a rather unpleasant expression.

“I am sure the _inspector_ is capable of handling some problems without you holding his hand, even with his track record.” In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware he was being far from fair, but he found that he didn’t much care. He finally had the chance to impress John, have him all to himself and show what a better choice he’d be, and yet here he was, playing second fiddle to _Greg Lestrade_ once again.

John’s eyes widened at the snide remark. Then they narrowed; for a moment it looked like the well-documented Watson anger would cloud his features until he let out a long-suffering sigh.

“I...I’m not doing this, Sherlock,” he said in a tone that implied that his anger was not that far away. “I’m not getting into an argument with you just because you...you are...I don’t even know. I’m not. This is important.”

“Oh, of _course_ it is,” the brunette began in an acidic tone, gearing up for just that argument John didn’t want to have. “Of course it’s-“

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John snapped and it wasn’t the voice of John Watson, blogger and assistant. It was the pure steel of Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers that brooked absolutely no argument.

Sherlock blinked, stunned into silence.

“Now listen here,” the doctor continued, advancing on the other as he spoke. “I don’t know what your problem really is and right now I don’t much care, because I _do_ know that Greg is at home, alone, having chucked down alcohol and some pills I don’t know. It could be nothing, but I’m not taking that chance. So right now I’m going to call him up and what _you_ are going to do is hail a cab. No argument. _Now_ , Sherlock.”

The younger Holmes blinked again, then nodded almost mechanically before whirling around to get the attention of a passing cab.

As the dial tone started up, John couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was going on, both with Lestrade and with Sherlock. The worries he’d had over the last few months bubbled back up to the surface, making his heart feel strangely heavy.

It started pounding a little bit faster when the dial tone cut out, not with the sound of the inspector’s voice, but the answering machine. He dialled again, only for the same thing to happen.

Three more times he tried, each time with the same result. By now all other worries had been pushed to the back of his mind in order to concentrate on the matter at hand.

It could theoretically be nothing as he’d said and Greg was merely sprawled on the sofa, knocked out from the alcohol and the medicine, unable to hear the phone. The man wasn’t stupid, though, and should know that mixing pills with alcohol was never a particularly good idea. But then he had probably not been in the clearest state of mind, if John was any judge at all, when he’d taken them.

He felt something pulling at his arm and was about to snap at whoever it was until it registered that Sherlock had succeeded in hailing a cab and wanted his attention. John nodded his thanks, pocketed his phone and crawled into the back of the black vehicle, his friend close on his heels.

Sherlock was about to say something, but was interrupted by the driver asking for the destination. John gave it in short, clipped words and then tried calling Greg one more time, with no luck.

When he turned his attention back to Sherlock, the other was looking out the window. The way he wasn’t looking at his flatmate at all tipped John off that it definitely wasn’t the scenery that he found so fascinating. But the doctor had had enough for one day; if Sherlock was intent on sulking, then he could go ahead and do it. At least it meant that he would be quiet.

After a ride spent in silence, which John spent going through various possible scenarios and solutions in his head, they arrived at the building where Lestrade lived. For once, it was John who was out of the car first, leaving the brunette to pay for the fare as he raced up the steps. In his haste he had a bit of trouble actually locating his key and getting it into the keyhole successfully. By the time he finally managed to turn it, Sherlock had caught up and was standing just behind him.

John turned and took a look at his flatmate. The surface expression on the distinctive features was that of an annoyed frown, but when he looked closer, he could trace worry and what might, just might, be a hint of insecurity.

Despite the situation and its urgency, he couldn’t help a small smile. “Thanks, Sherlock,” he said. “For coming and...well, everything. I know sentiment isn’t your area, so it’s okay if you stay –“

“Don’t be an idiot, John,” the younger Holmes interrupted a tad harshly, the frown deepening. “What use would it be to stay here? Lestrade apparently needs help and so we help him. Obvious.” With that he turned the handle and pushed past John into the hall, locating which of the two flats inside was Lestrade’s in an instant and moving purposefully towards it.

John followed behind as quickly as he could, knowing the flat’s front door wouldn’t be locked, catching up with the other in the living room. He moved past the now still figure of Sherlock only to stop and take in the scene himself.

From an objective standpoint, nothing much really seemed out of place or wrong in any way. The slightly messy surroundings wouldn’t be unusual for a man living on his own and the doctor knew for a fact that it often looked worse than this. The number of beer bottles and cans on the living room table could be taken as a worrying clue, but again, they could technically have been accumulated over a period of time and the bottle of pills could just have been left there on an unrelated occasion.

Even the detective inspector himself didn’t seem out of place sprawled as he was in the clothes he’d worn out on the sofa in what had likely started off as a slouched sitting position before sliding down the seat somewhat, head tilted back against the back of the sofa. To the casual onlooker, it looked like he was merely asleep, aided by the alcohol.

However, as soon as you looked a little closer, it was evident that something was amiss. For one thing, the breathing was too shallow, especially compared to his normal breathing for being drunk and asleep.

John took a deep breath, tamping down on the feeling of apprehension and slight dread that was building inside. Now was not the time.

“Greg? Greg, can you hear me?” he called as he stepped close. There was no immediate response. He shook his shoulder and it merely followed the momentum he caused. The head lolled to the side, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. “Greg?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” came an exclamation from behind. “He obviously can’t hear you!”

“I’m perfectly aware of that, Sherlock, thank you,” John replied calmly, entering doctor mode instead of concerned friend as he loosened the tie and checked on the pulse. It was rather faint, but it was _there_. Thankfully. “I was making sure so as not to overreact. Now, please call a bloody ambulance and tell it to get a move on.” Not once did he turn around; Sherlock was not his main priority at the moment.

The brunette stared at the other, deep in concentration as he checked for other vital signs, then swallowed around a lump in his throat and pulled out his phone, moving into another room to give the doctor quiet.

The call to 999 for an ambulance for mercifully short; the woman on the other end wasn’t dumb enough to be disbelieving or tell him he was overreacting. The way he could very precisely describe the problem might have helped in that regard, though. An ambulance was on its way and that was the main thing.

Sherlock didn’t immediately go back to the living room, however. Instead he called up someone else.

“Sherlock, I don’t really have time –“ was the first words the one on the other end of the line uttered when the phone was picked up.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” the younger Holmes interrupted, voice clipped. “Turn on the cameras, watch the footage from when he arrives home and then get your fat arse over here. If you’re serious about all of this, of course.” With that, he hung up. He trusted his brother to figure out the rest on his own.

Walking back into the living room, he took a moment to watch John work. Truth be told, there wasn’t much he really could do beside try to make sure that Lestrade kept breathing, shallow or not. But even then, it was surprisingly rare for Sherlock to actually see John as he worked. There was usually so many other things to consider.

That he was working very carefully, not to mention _tenderly_ , with the inspector made something inside Sherlock clench in a mixture of caring warmth, annoyance and possessive anger. It wasn’t right.

When he could see John stroking his thumb repeatedly over Greg’s cheekbone, a soft smile on his lips and a warm look in his eyes, he had to use every ounce of his willpower not to begin growling and going up to stop him doing it. It wasn’t right _at all_ and he wanted very badly to stop it, but he was also now aware that it would not endear him in any way. If he was to show John that he was the better choice in a romantic sense, he had to curb the behaviour he had been displaying so far since this whole...situation began. He had to show that he could be better than that; he could be what the doctor wanted so that he would be chosen instead, and so he reigned himself in as best he could.

In his efforts he had been retreating into his mind he had failed to notice that the former soldier had stood up and was now looking at him. It slowly registered that he was trying to say something.

“What?”

“I said, did you get through to the emergency services?” John repeated.

“Oh. Yes. Yes.” Sherlock felt a little distracted still. “The ambulance should be here shortly.”

“Good. In the meantime we have to make sure he keeps breathing. I have no idea how many pills he’s taken, but...”

“...Even with an over the counter product such as N-acetyl-p-aminophenol, there is danger when going over the recommended dose, especially combined with vast amounts of alcohol,” Sherlock finished.

“See, that’s the thing.” John was raking his hand through his hair, clearly worried. The furrows of his brow were deep. “The bottle _is_ for paracetamol, but the capsules inside doesn’t match up with the shape of paracetamol pills. For all I know, they’re much stronger painkillers, if they are painkillers.”

Sherlock looked at him. “I could…test them,” he offered, wanting to ease his friend’s worry. “I can set up a makeshift lab here and –“ He stopped when he saw John smile. It was small and it was weak, but it was a smile.

“The emergency response people are going to have plenty of equipment, not to mention expertise, to deal with whatever he’s downed. You did tell them the problem?” The brunette merely raised an eyebrow. “Good. Thank you – and for offering, to, well, help, too. With the lab, I mean.”

Sherlock stepped closer. He wanted very badly to bend down and kiss John, but instead he laid a hand on the other’s shoulder. The doctor’s eyes found his and they seemed to search for something, which the consulting detective fervently wished he would find.

Before either had a chance to say something, steps could be heard coming up the stairs leading to the upper floor flat. John looked relieved, probably thinking that it was the ambulance people arriving, but Sherlock frowned, recognizing the pattern of the step that were occasionally followed by an additional tap.

Sure enough, what stepped through the door was not a person decked out in green, neon yellow and reflective strips. Instead there stood a man in a three piece suit. A rather familiar man with an umbrella and a quite...dishevelled look.

Nevertheless, he straightened up and attempted to look calm and collected. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the look in his eyes and the way they were flickering between the two flatmates and the unconscious body of Gregory Lestrade. Every time his eyes found the slumped figure, something dark and deeply sad passed over them and they lingered a little longer each time.

“Is he...” _alive_ , “alright?”

Sherlock felt John freeze up under his hand and he unconsciously tightened his grip even as he turned his head to give his brother a glare. He might have been the one to call him and tell him to come, but the timing really was nothing but atrocious.

“He is breathing and stable enough, at least for now. The paramedics should be here shortly,” John replied. “I really don’t think you ought to be here right now,” he continued after a pause, voice low and deceivingly calm. “Please leave.”

Mycroft seemed not to register that anyone had spoken at first. Then his eyes focused on the doctor, partially hidden as he was behind Sherlock and a strange, not entire pleasant expression twisted his features before they settled back into the neutral mask that was probably second nature to him by that point.

“I am quite conscious of the fact that my presence here is less than welcome,” the ginger fox began in a quiet voice with a strained undertone that belied his calm facade. He held up a hand to forestall any comments. “That this...turn of events is partially –,“ John spluttered “ – fair enough, almost exclusively due to my earlier behaviour of which I’m sure you are aware.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in question when John merely nodded, but he made no comment.

“However,” Mycroft continued, gaze returning to look at Lestrade for a moment, “I would like a chance to make amends when he is back with us. If you’d let me, John.”

Both Holmes’ eyes turned to John, apparently trying to will him to agree. The doctor, in turn, stared back at the elder Holmes, a deep frown marring his features as he seemed to consider the plea.

Before he had a chance to answer one way or the other, the actual paramedics arrived, a folded up stretcher held between them. There were two; a rather stoutly built woman and a skinny, tall man with freckles all over his face. For a disorienting moment, John felt like he had been presented with a comedy double act.

“Right,” the freckled man said when the stretcher had been set down, “where is the patient?”

“Over here.” Once again, John had become the doctor and stepped forward, motioning the paramedic towards the detective inspector. “His vitals are stable, though weak. I don’t know what kind of pills he’s taken, though.”

“Good. That’s good – and you are?” There was no suspicion or malice in the voice. It was simply an inquiry to ascertain his identity.

“Doctor John Watson.”

“Medical doctor, I assume. If it’s all the same, I’d like to do my own quick assessment.” The paramedic pulled out a stethoscope and a small flashlight. When the former soldier nodded, he set about checking the vital signs.

“Right,” he said again a few minutes later as he stood up. “Though he’s breathing and there seems to be no immediate indication of an overdose, I’d rather not take that risk. Help me get him on the stretcher.”

John grabbed hold of Greg’s legs while the other man got a firm grip under his torso and together they carefully moved the unresponsive body over onto the stretcher the other paramedic had wheeled over. Meanwhile, the two brothers remained still where they were standing, one just inside the door and the other near the back wall, assessing the situation without any words.

As the silver fox was rolled past the elder Holmes, another pained look crossed Mycroft’s features. He stretched out a hand, brushing his fingers along Greg’s cheek as he passed. He did not, however, make any demands of the paramedics nor did he attempt to follow them when they made their way down the stairs, manoeuvring the stretcher between them.

John watched him; he was looking smaller, more vulnerable and much more _human_ than he had ever seen the man. It was of course not unreasonable to think that it could again be faked emotions, but despite the cynicism and scepticism both he and Greg had developed over the last few months, something inside told the doctor that if the emotions he saw displayed on the redhead’s face and in his body language were faked, he were too good a master at it.

He came to a decision. It was quite possibly not the right decision to make, despite his gut feeling, and had serious potential for coming back to haunt him later, but he would have to deal with that when and if it came up. Right now it seemed the right thing to do; more than that, it seemed like the only thing he could rightfully do. He had to keep his fingers crossed that it would be beneficial to them all.

“Go with them,” John said after a moment, to the unnoticeable startling of both brothers. “I must be barmy, but yeah, go on. We’ll get a cab and follow you. I wouldn’t advise trying to plead your case for a while after he wakes up, though. He has rather a mean left hook.”

Mycroft looked at him for only a moment; then he turned and strode after the paramedics, his normal composure apparently back. They were all quickly out of sight.

John felt like he was being watched and looked over to where Sherlock was still standing. There was a look of confusion on his face, the pale eyes seemed to bore holes into him and the former soldier knew he was being taken apart by that massive brain once more. It didn’t matter at that moment, though.

“Best get a move on if we’re going to catch up to them,” he said, trying for a jovial tone as he moved towards the door. “We won’t have the benefit of the sirens.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, then shook his head as if to clear it and followed after him, mind still churning. For all his intelligence, he could not fathom why John would allow Mycroft to be the one going with the ambulance instead of him. He might not know a lot about relationships, but he did know that giving your romantic competition that kind of advantage was not something people did. It just didn’t compute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably could have gone on a bit longer before ending it, but I wanted to get it up today. Why? It's Bonfire Night tonight, which I admit is a silly reason, but there you go.  
> As for the medical stuff - I am not a doctor nor am I very well versed in medical matters, so the information on painkillers and alcohol I looked up, specifically I used this page: http://www.nhs.uk/chq/pages/867.aspx?categoryid=73&subcategoryid=103 And I figured Sherlock with his knowledge of chemistry would use the chemical name for paracetamol.
> 
> Oh, yes, and I have a tumblr now, too, in case anyone cares - http://elphenfan.tumblr.com/
> 
> Feedback as always is treasured if the criticism is constructive.


	13. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John rush to the hospital where Mycroft is waiting. John gets to tell Greg off, they come a few conclusions and they discuss what to do next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months this time - reducing in waits every chapter. Perhaps the final chapter will be out in a week or something? Not likely. At least this time it was happy RL stuff that kept me busy. ^^ Still, apologies to everyone and thank you for waiting.

The ride in the once again almost magically hailed cab took far longer than John wanted, even factoring in the traffic hell that was London, and it did not help his state of mind any.

As soon as they’d gotten out of the front door of the building, John had felt himself go from being a doctor back to being a very concerned friend and platonic lover, which was now beginning to clutter his mind with the worries that plague most people when something happens to their loved ones. Being a doctor should have helped with the knowledge he possessed because of that, and in some ways it did, but it was not enough to assuage his fears, at least not completely.

He felt eyes on him from time to time as they agonizingly slowly made their way towards Bart’s. Yet every time he looked back, Sherlock was looking out the window or staring straight ahead. His eyes had a drawn look to them and his cupid bow lips were drawn into a line. He seemed poised to let loose a slew of deductions at any moment, but he remained almost demonstratively silent.

The tension in the vehicle was steadily growing as they moved through the city until John had to grit his teeth in frustration. He contemplated confronting Sherlock on what the problem was, but he had a feeling that he wouldn’t much like the answer, especially given his worries, not to mention the fact that it felt like a continuation of the last few months’ worth of building tension. Also, it would be a very bad place and time to have a discussion that could very easily escalate into a rather explosive argument. So he held his tongue for the time being, difficult as he found it.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was around forty minutes from start to finish, the cab finally pulled to a stop in front of the hospital. The driver was paid and they almost ran into the building, only for John to stop them both. Before they ran anywhere, they had to get their bearings on where they were going, familiar though they were with a lot of the hospital.

“He would be going straight to have his stomach pumped, if they knew what they were doing,” John started, looking around. It had been bloody ages since he had really been anywhere in there except for the labs and the morgue, which was only due to Sherlock and the Work, and he was trying to suss out what part of the place they should go to.

Before he had a chance to work it out, however, he found that he was in the process of being left behind. The brunette was making his way down one hallway already, his stride parting people before him. John muttered a curse under his breath and ran to catch up, falling into stride just behind Sherlock as he made use of the wake.

They did not speak on the entire trip through the corridors that always seemed almost maze-like to those not familiar with the layout, but the tension from the cab persisted and as such made the silence preferable to any potentially awkward conversation.

Just as John was about to ask a nurse whether or not they were even going in the right direction, since he hadn’t actually seen any signs, he spotted a familiar three piece and brolly with an unmistakable hair colour standing in a waiting area that was otherwise deserted.

The man turned as they approached and there was no mistaking that while the rather calculating eyes merely lingered briefly on Sherlock, they stayed far longer on John, scrutinizing him and apparently trying to pin him down somehow.

Not that it mattered particularly much at that moment in time, at least not to the doctor.

“So,” John started, looking Mycroft squarely in the eye, “how is his progress?” Mycroft looked pained for a moment, before it was hidden to the best of his ability, which admittedly seemed rather diminished at that point. He looked towards a closed door. “I don’t know, I’m afraid. Since I am not listed as next of kin, I am not entitled to any kind of information.”He paused for a moment and gave John another look, this one rather odd.

“There is a name listed under ‘next of kin’, however,” he continued. “Yours, Doctor Watson.”

Though that was more than a little surprising, John tried his best not to show it. “Well, that is something, at least,” he said, voice level. “Then we can at least be kept in the know on how he’s doing.”

Mycroft merely gave a short, tense nod and kept on looking towards where the procedure of the stomach pumping was presumably happening.

The doctor looked at him in turn. It wasn’t that obvious if you didn’t know how to read the man, but compared to the almost unnervingly blank, composed features one was normally presented with, the emotions visible were numerable and clear and seemed genuine.

Once again John felt a surge of compassion for the older Holmes that he was sure he shouldn’t, all things considered. It was warring with the feelings of distrust and suspicions of manipulation he and Greg had been struggling with for so long and left him feeling even more drained than he was already.

Sitting down in a move that more closely resembled a collapse of limbs, John put his head in his hands and started massaging his temples. There was nothing he could physically do to help with any of his problems, so they had plenty of opportunity to continue running around inside of his head. Something he really could have done without.

His vision obscured, the doctor didn’t see the two brothers exchanging a look. A look was all it would have been had it been anybody else, but as always they managed to communicate quite a lot in just the one look.

As a result, Sherlock sat down next to John, and very closely at that, while Mycroft went down the hallway. It wasn’t until a hand was put on his thigh, though, that John registered that someone had indeed sat down beside him. He looked at the hand, unmistakable with its long, somewhat bony fingers and elegance despite its size; the hand of a violinist. John’s heart skipped a beat or two.

When he glanced up at the man beside him, mouth opening in preparation to say something, he found Sherlock looking straight ahead, face impassive and apparently not aware of or at least willing to acknowledge where his hand was. But to John’s quiet astonishment, the hand was gripping his thigh in a way that did not suggest any kind of accidental movement. His heart skipped quite a few beats more.

They sat there in silence for what seemed like ages but on the clock were about an hour and a half until the echoing clicks of two pairs of shoes hitting hospital floor in a corridor could be heard and they were coming closer to them. One turned out to belong to a nurse with blonde hair and a rather stout figure. The other was Mycroft.

“Which one of you is Mr. Watson?” she asked in a disinterested voice. When John raised his hand in indication, she studied him for a moment as if she had trouble believing it.

“Right, then, Mr. Watson,” she continued in the same monotone. “If you would come this way. The doctor says you can see him now.”

Sherlock looked at her with narrowed eyes and opened his mouth, no doubt preparing to deduce her to shreds. Before he got to it, though, Mycroft stepped in.

“That would be _Doctor_ Watson, nurse, not _Mr._ Watson,” he said, giving her a cool look. ”I am sure it merely slipped your attention due to the...fatigue of such a stressful job, but I do believe that to the medical profession titles like that have some importance.”

The doctor in question had to hide an unbidden smile at that, especially given the nurse’s sudden flustered look. He rose, dislodging the hand still on his thigh, and followed her as she practically scurried back where she had come from.

The brothers watched them go.

 

* * *

 

 

The man did not look much better in a hospital bed than he had sprawled on the sofa in his own living room. Of course the sterility of the room and the way people tend to look smaller and weaker in there probably were contributing factors, but the sight of him there was disheartening.

What made it a little better, however, was the fact that he at least had his eyes open and seemed cognisant enough to recognize John as he came in. He gave a weak smile.

“Hey there. Sorry to have...spoiled your date,” was the first thing Greg said and John internally winced. Not so much at the mention of his ‘date’ but at the roughness of the voice and the lack of volume in it.

“Don’t you worry about that,” the doctor said as he walked up and pulled up the visitor chair, settling in beside the bed. “It wasn’t much of a date in any case.”

He regarded the man in the bed silently for a moment, then let out a deep-felt sigh. “What the devil were you playing at, Greg? You aren’t stupid, so I don’t buy the ‘it was a mistake’ thing for a moment.”

At first Lestrade looked nonplussed, as if he had no idea what the problem was. Then realization seemed to dawn and he looked away. He swallowed once, then again. “It was and it wasn’t,” he admitted at length. He looked back at John, a pained expression in his brown eyes. “I did take them deliberately, but I only intended to knock myself out for a bit. I just wanted a bit of respite.”

“Only intended – !” John heard the volume of his own voice, not to mention the outrage, and stopped. He closed his eyes and took several slow breaths. “I retract my statement; you _are_ stupid. You don’t take pills with alcohol. Period. It’s bloody dangerous – even ibuprofen can lead to internal bleeding in the stomach and you took pills from an unmarked bottle! You could have been _dead_!”

He realized he still sounded beyond angry and took another breath, looking up at the ceiling as he did so. It could have been worse. The fact of the matter was that Greg was alive and well, relatively speaking, and that he hadn’t _actually_ tried to top himself. That had to be the main thing.

John felt fingers touch his shoulder. When he turned his face downwards, Greg leant over as best he was able and placed a kiss on the nearest thing within reach – John’s forehead.

“I’m sorry, John,” the inspector said when he’d pulled back and was resting against the pillows again. “It was rash and it was beyond stupid. I just...I don’t know. The logic of it seems to elude me right now.”

“That would probably be a side effect of being sober,” the doctor returned, offering a small smile in reconciliation. “How do you feel?”

“How do you think? Pretty bad and exhausted all around. The doctors tell me I should be well enough to go home in a few days, bar any complications, though I don’t feel much like going home.” He was silent for a bit. “Thank you for getting to me so quickly.”

John smiled. “It did help to get a cab almost straight away and someone to call the ambulance while I made sure you were breathing.”

“Sherlock came with you?”

“Yeah, he did. He’s here at the hospital too, as a matter of fact.” John paused, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “Actually, he’s not the only one who came here. Mycroft showed up in your flat shortly before the paramedics arrived and he...went in the ambulance with you.”

Greg’s brows creased in a frown at that and his mouth got a hard set to it. He opened his mouth then closed it. He opened it again only to close it with a snap. Eventually he managed, “Why?”

“Why did he come or why did I let him go with you?”

“Either. Both. Take your pick.” There was a slight accusatory tone to his voice.

“When he first arrived, I made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t welcome,” John began. “He asked for permission to make it up to you for his mistake that he admitted to, which I guess is why he was there.”

“Yes, well, part of the reason I walked out on him in the first place was the feeling that I really was being manipulated. Why would this be different?”

“That is a very good point,” John had to concede, “and honestly, I can’t give you a _good_ reason. But when he stood there, looking at you as you were rolled past on the stretcher, he looked not only pained, but so very small and...well, _human_ , I suppose.” He held up a hand to forestall comments. “Yes, I know they’re good at doing just that. I live _and_ work with Sherlock, in case you forgot. But it was...it didn’t register as...it was gut feeling, to be honest. It didn’t _feel_ like he was bluffing or manipulating, but was genuinely pained by what had happened. Same thing when we met him waiting here in the waiting area.”

Greg regarded his friend silently, face impassive, which did not help the uneasy feelings inside John. Eventually, the inspector spoke up.

“That’s all well and good, but...if your gut feeling is wrong, then what? I’ve been played for a fool one too many times, John. It’s not going to happen again, not if I can help it at all.”

John found himself leaning back in the chair, moving his hand over his face and letting out a deep felt sigh. “Yeah, that’s just it. We still can’t _know_ if they’re being sincere, one way or the other. At least not without confronting them directly.”

“I did that.”

“Did you? Really?”

Lestrade seemed a little nonplussed at first; then his expression turned somewhat guiltily uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps not. I think I made it...abundantly clear” – the snort John couldn’t stop made the inspector smile briefly – “that I did not want to be manipulated and lied to. But I can’t say that I actually confronted him with the fact that I’ve fallen in love with him and whether he was actually playing me because of that.”

He gave another smile, rueful this time. “I think I stormed out before he got much of a chance of anything, really.”

“Perhaps, but given what the two of us have been through these past couple of months with those two berks, I don’t blame you at all.”

“Might be that you’re not all that objective in your viewpoint there. Just a thought.” He paused. “Any chance of a kiss?” he asked, giving the other a hopeful look. “I feel like I need something fortifying that’s not alcohol.”

John let out a bark of a laugh and leaned over, giving Greg a big, resounding kiss. Lestrade followed him when he attempted to pull back, though, and turned the kiss into a full-blown snog. Not that John objected.

Eventually the doctor pulled back and sat back down. “Mmh. I’ve got to admit I’ve gotten used to that and I’m going to miss it.”

“That’s a little premature, though, isn’t it? I can’t say I’m particularly hopeful.”

“No, nor am I,” John admitted, shoulders slumping slightly. “But on the other hand, I’m pretty tired of the speculation and the tension. We’ve had a good platonic relationship and that I wouldn’t have missed out on for anything, but then it hasn’t really...we're pretty much in the same boat as before, only worse, aren't we?”

“What are you saying? That we do confront them? Not sure I’ve got the strength for that.”

John grabbed one of Greg’s hands and gave it a squeeze in support. “I wasn’t suggesting that we do it on our own. But I do have a good track record with going with my gut feeling, so I thought I could go and get Mycroft here and he can try to make amends with both of us in the room. How does that sound?”

After a bit of thought, Lestrade offered a tired, crooked smile. “That sounds like something of a plan.”

 

* * *

 

 

On the way back to where he had come from, John ran into the nurse who had brought him to Lestrade’s room. She stepped in front of him to stop his progress, flashing him a smile that seemed wholly insincere.

“Yes, can I help you?” he asked, going for a calm and friendly demeanour. He realized his tone was rather more clipped than he had intended a second too late.

“I would just like to say that I appreciate you being mindful of the patient’s rest by leaving so early.” Another brief, false smile flashed. “It really does help with the recovery.”

With the day he’d had so far, a patronizing nurse was just about the cherry on top. He plastered on a smile as insincere as hers. “Yes. It does, but only if the actual patient in question has enough peace of mind to actually rest. As that can’t happen before I’ve collected someone to see him, I suggest you move out of the way and let me get on. Or shall we get the head nurse or one of the doctors and see what they say? Hm?”

The nurse looked a little taken aback, then adopted her earlier policy; she gave a terse nod and stepped aside. John gave a nod in way of reply and carried on.

 

* * *

 

 

He found the two brothers back where he had left them, though as he approached he could see they weren’t sitting there quietly.

Instead they were standing quite close and obviously arguing as quietly as they could, if the drawn features on Mycroft and the hand gestures from Sherlock were anything to go by.

He cleared his throat in order to get their attention and both heads turned in his direction. It was always a little nerve wracking to be under the scrutiny of the both of them, but John persevered.

“He’s alright. Tired, but alright, all things considered.”

“That is excellent news –“ Mycroft began, but halted when John held up a hand.

“I hadn’t finished. I’ve talked to him and you can go see him, but on the condition that I am there, too. That is not up for debate.” A dark and slightly foreboding expression crossed Mycroft’s features for a brief moment before he managed to school them.

“Might I enquire why?” he asked, eyes boring into the doctor.

John stared back, eyebrows raised, not inclined to be intimidated. “Yes, but I’m under no obligation to answer. I’ve allowed you a lot that I probably shouldn’t and it’s been a _very_ long, _very_ tiring day, so please don’t test me.”

He looked over at Sherlock, who had an unpleasant expression of his own, and John’s stomach knotted itself further than it already had. “Thank you for helping, Sherlock. It’s alright if you go back home, though.”

The consulting detective blinked at him, slowly, as if not comprehending what was being said. The corners of his lips then drew downwards and his eyes gained a hard look. With a muttering of something that _sounded_ like it might have been ‘As if I would ever allow that’ he swept on down the hallway, the coat managing to swirl slightly with the brisk pace of his walking.

Mycroft was quick to follow his brother, the clicking of the hard soles of his immaculate leather balmorals against the floor making a counterpoint to the occasional thud of the umbrella hitting said floor. Neither was hindered by anyone in the hospital staff.

John sighed and started walking after them, trying to ignore his apprehensions and worries. Whatever the outcome, at least it would be an actual outcome. That had to be something. It _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...there we go. That was the second to last chapter, everyone. Next time there will be resolutions, one way or the other.
> 
> I was actually going to end the chapter on 'sounds like a plan' from Greg, but then I looked at it and thought that with everything, it deserved to be a little longer. It still somehow seems short or is that just me?
> 
> ALSO - If anyone notices, I have tried very hard to dial the epithets back as that has bugged people.. Emphasis on 'tried'  
> (and just FYI and because I don't get why I looked it up - balmorals are shoes, a type of dress shoes)
> 
> Feedback is as always loved and treasured :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final confrontation and the outcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little over two months in the making and I apologize profusely. I don't mind admitting that I have struggled mightily with the first half of this to make it balanced and not soap opera-ish. Whether I have succeeded, I leave up to you. The wait wasn't helped by a computer whose battery gave out. I know, I know, excuses. It's a 5k+ chapter, though :)
> 
> I cannot thank everyone enough for their patience.
> 
> This is still not beta'ed, so any plotholes, mistakes and so on are as always mine

Whoever Greg had expected to come through the door first, it certainly wasn’t Sherlock. Nevertheless, that was who burst into the room that apart from Lestrade was thankfully empty. The younger Holmes took a look around which lingered briefly on the prone inspector then seemed to nod to himself and plunked himself down on one of the unoccupied beds.

Before they had a chance to say anything to each other, another stepped in closely followed by a third.

Greg felt his throat constricting and his stomach, which wasn’t faring well to begin with, was churning very unpleasantly. He wanted to get it over with, but at the same time Mycroft Holmes was the last person that he wanted to see at that moment in time. It took a lot of will to keep looking at the man as he walked into the room and stopped in the middle of it, not to mention keep his face relatively neutral.

The third person, John, made things slightly better by being the one to go over and reclaim the visitor chair beside Lestrade’s bed. He looked over at the brothers, mouth set and eyebrows raised as if daring them to say anything and the inspector felt a surge of fondness for his friend. One should never underestimate John Hamish Watson, especially as a soldier ready to defend, and right now he was using that protective streak to challenge two rather formidable foes.

Sherlock looked back at his flatmate with an intensity that surprised Lestrade somewhat, but not as much as the rather obvious heat in those pale eyes. What kind of heat he couldn’t say for sure, but the contrast from the normally almost impassive face was astounding.

The elder Holmes cleared his throat, dragging everyone’s attention back to him.

“First of all,” he began, “it is good to see that you pulled through this...ordeal and with what appears to be limited consequences. I am in no doubt that Doctor Watson could tell us exactly how many dire outcomes there can be to such a thing.”

He paused for a moment, then continued. “That you would take such drastic measures, however, to what was essentially a small misunderstanding of intent...”

Greg couldn’t help it; he stared at the man, not quite believing what he was actually hearing and therefore, not yet able to get mad. “Are you saying that you think that I...what, overreacted?” There was no immediate response, but the silence was telling.

“Get out,” the inspector said, voice low and dangerous. Mycroft looked confused and opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t get a chance. “I said, **_get out!_** ”

When the man didn’t move and clearly had no intention of doing so, something sparked inside Lestrade and he made an effort to sit himself upright, despite the protests of both his stomach and John.

“How dare you?” he began in a low tone, glaring at Mycroft, who stared back, face calm but only barely so. “How dare you tell me that I was overreacting when you have no idea _at all_ why I was actually doing it?! A small misunderstanding of intent you call it? Maybe it was to you, but then again, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Making use of misunderstandings and misdirection, subtle manipulation to suit your needs; that is your world. That is _you_.”

He actually wanted to stop. Just turn away from them all and pretend he was alone in the room until they left. But now that he had begun, he found the words spilling out of him almost without his consent. In a way it was cathartic. The possibility of it turning out worse was slim at best and he felt a little better for being able to get it off his chest after keeping it in for so very long.

What was surprising was the fact that he was _allowed_ to speak. Nobody interrupted; in fact, Mycroft stood there in front of the bed, completely still, face impassive but not dismissive or otherwise indifferent, eyes intent on the inspector. He looked like he was just going to let it all in – whatever Greg said, he would listen to without speaking up against it. It felt both chilling and comforting at the same time; alien and liberating.

After a deep breath, he carried on. “What you don’t get is that not everyone works like that. To most people manipulation isn’t a _good_ thing. It’s something you only use when you’re either out of options or you’re an absolute arse. Getting manipulated is getting used just for the sake of it and that...that just...” he sought for the right words to describe it properly and failed. “It hurts. It really fucking hurts to know that you are. What hurts more is to know that to the manipulator, that’s _all_ that you are.”

He blinked once, twice, staying the moisture in his eyes to the best of his abilities. He was angry and he was hurt, but he was not going to give in to the tears. They would help nothing.

A hand grabbed his and he glanced over to see John looking back at him with a mixture of affection and encouragement. They exchanged small smiles then Greg turned his attention back to Mycroft.

“The problem is that I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being on edge and going back and forth between cynical observations and hopeful optimism – it’s draining me. John has been wonderful in these past few months, he really has. “ Lestrade squeezed John’s hand as he gave him another glance and therefore missed the tightening of Mycroft’s hand around the umbrella handle as well as the aborted attempt to get up from Sherlock. “But it’s not been quite enough, not in the long run, and the...incident at the restaurant was just the last straw. I know it’s who you are and that’s fine. I just can’t deal with the confusion anymore. No matter how much I care.” The last words were spoken very quietly.

There was silence in the room for a moment after that. An odd expression was present on Mycroft’s face; it was a mixture of disbelief, anger, a bit of pain and a sliver of hope. “You care?” he asked slowly, as if unsure he had actually heard it correctly, an unexpected furrow appearing between his eyebrows.

“Yes, of course I do!” Lestrade burst out, surprised by the reaction.

“So....” To both John’s and Greg’s surprise, the one speaking was Sherlock, leaning forward with eyes narrowed, “you _care_ for Mycroft and yet you’re in a relationship with John? Pray tell me, Greg, how does that figure? I am _intrigued._ ”

Greg and John involuntarily swallowed and exchanged glances. So the brothers _were_ apparently aware that they had had a relationship. How much they knew of it wasn’t clear, but they didn’t seem to be aware that it had been a platonic makeshift solution. Whether that was a good thing or not was not clear.

John came to a decision as he looked between the two brothers, not liking the expressions he saw there. In for a penny, in for a pound, after all. “Ah. That’s not hard to explain,” he began. Their attention swivelled to him. “We aren’t in a relationship per se –“

“Oh, _please_ ,” Sherlock snapped in interruption, nose wrinkled as it tended to when he felt his intelligence was being deeply insulted. “As if it wasn’t painfully obvious that you are. All the late nights ‘drinking’ and staying the night, the standing closer together at crime scenes and the constant looks, the fact that you haven’t tried to hit on one of our female clients for _months_ and of course the fact that you _had the key to Lestrade’s apartment_.”

“If you would let me **_finish_** ,” John barked back, temper rising and just kept in check. What they did _not_ need right now was Sherlock having a strop. “We aren’t in a relationship, you berk; at least not a romantic one. We never have and we never will. But we _have_ provided some support and understanding to each other over the last few months, because we have damn well needed it!”

He glared at them both, but mostly Sherlock. ”Yes, you got it right. Of course you’ve spotted all of that, why wouldn’t you? But as you’ve said yourself as well, you always miss something. This time your massive brain has managed to quite miss the point of _why_ we have been doing this for so long, which is quite astonishing, really.” He sent a questioning look to Greg, who hesitated a moment, then nodded. The decision John had come to was agreed on. “So – do you want to know?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft was quicker.

“Yes, please.” The tone was bordering on pleading, if such a thing could ever be ascribed to Mycroft Holmes.

John took a breath. This was it, then. This was the moment where things would unravel. The possibility that it would turn out in their favour was of course there, but with the way things had been going for them as of late, it would just figure that it wouldn’t. Either way Greg had been right; dealing with the confusion and the uncertainty for so long was draining beyond belief.

_If this turns out wrong, I do hope Greg doesn’t mind me moving in for a while until I sort out new accommodations and another job_ , he thought with a bit of dry detachment before starting.

“It was supposed to be a substitute solution,” he started, closing his eyes as he spoke. “That was all it was meant to be, right from the get-go. We were going to provide the support and understanding the other needed from the one person who understood, really, properly _understood_ , what it’s like to be in love with the two of you complete and utter wankers!”

He stopped speaking then opened his eyes at a rather insistent nudge of the elbow from the detective inspector. What he saw he couldn’t quite believe, but later it was a memory he would treasure dearly.

The two brothers had expressions of flabbergasted disbelief on their faces that would have looked almost comical in any other circumstances. They were not even trying to hide it, which was even more baffling, and neither seemed able to find their voice.

Mycroft was, after a minute or two, the first to recover enough to be able to speak. “And why would we believe that?” After everything, that seemed too good to be true and his brain was automatically leaping to some kind of subterfuge or otherwise lie.

Mentally, John spluttered. On the outside, he merely glowered and walked right up to the man with the ginger hair.

“Why would I lie?” he growled. “What’s the benefit of lying at this point? When I have more to gain or at least keep by keeping shtum than I have by speaking, why the blooming hell would I lie? Hm? You tell me that, Mycroft Holmes.”

“You think...” It wasn’t Mycroft speaking; it was Sherlock, looking uncommonly perplexed and somewhat vulnerable. “John, you honestly think that keeping quiet would be the _good_ option? How can you think that?”

The doctor was about to snap back at him but he stopped when he saw that Sherlock wasn’t trying to insult him or otherwise belittle him for thinking something the detective deemed idiotic. Instead, looking at his face, he seemed genuinely confused as to the reason why John would think that.

It gave John a lump in his throat and a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was both warming and a little unpleasant. “How can I think anything else, Sherlock?” he asked, speaking in a much quieter and subdued voice than his earlier angry tone. “When have you – _either_ of you – given either of us reason to think anything else? When keeping quiet meant that at least we could keep the status quo and speaking up would cost us what we had...well, would you say anything?”

The two brothers looked at him then exchanged glances and as always, they seemed to be able to share a lot of information with just that one glance. That this time, their gazes lingered was something that left both John and Greg with a rather unsettling feeling.

“At what precise point have we given you the impression that you would...have lost what you had if you said anything?” was what was finally asked and again, it was Mycroft asking the question.

“When have you done anything _but_?” Greg asked, sounding thoroughly perplexed. “Honestly, with Sherlock normally deriding anything resembling relationships or sentiment and you being so very _professional_ ,” he almost spat the last word, “it’d take deductions pulled straight out of your arse to realize that you were even _remotely_ interested, even if you _didn’t_ add the manipulative tendencies and the derision of attachment.” He both sounded and looked hurt ant vulnerable by the time he had finished speaking.

“We have tried...” Mycroft began then faltered.

His brows furrowed, face settling into a contemplative expression that lasted for several moments. He then seemed to come to a resolution; he let his umbrella fall from his hand as he took long strides over to the occupied bed. Before Greg had a chance to react, Mycroft leant over him and planted a kiss squarely on the detective’s lips.

Lestrade spluttered and if it hadn’t been for his pained abdomen making sudden movement something he was loathe to do, he would more than likely have drawn his arm back to land a punch on the other’s jaw.

As it was, he did manage to pull away some, glaring as he did so. “I swear to whatever deity might be out there, Mycroft Holmes, that if you are doing this for the fun of it, then I –“

“Do shut up, Gregory.” With that, the redhead kissed him again, lips against lips, firm and insistent. There was no immediate response, but Mycroft didn’t let that bother him. Not at that moment.

“I am tremendously sorry for giving you the wrong impression for so very long as well as letting you think you were being manipulated. Neither was my intention.” He gave Greg the opportunity to look at him, every facade and mask peeled away, revealing what he hoped the inspector understood to be the real emotions underneath. “Will you please give me the opportunity to make amends and prove the depth of my regard for you?”

Greg couldn’t help himself; the relief and warmth flooding his system made him a bit overwhelmed, so he nodded slowly, ignoring the slightly archaic way the other sometimes phrased things, and when next Mycroft leant in for a kiss, he met him halfway. The kiss was soft and slow, just lips pressing together, learning each other, but it spoke of future heat and passion. It spoke of _more_.

On the sideline John watched, eyes slightly misty. He wouldn’t be able to say what the exact reason for the moisture in eyes were, as it was made up of so many emotions all at once but two of the larger ones were the happiness on Greg’s behalf and the slight wistfulness at losing something that he had come to treasure.

In his mental absence, he didn’t notice Sherlock sliding up to him until he was blocking his view. The consulting detective had the oddest look on his face that John had yet seen. His fingers twitched as if they wanted to move, to touch something, but was prevented from doing so by Sherlock holding himself back.

“Sherlock?” John said, his voice pitched low in question.

He didn’t assume that just because Mycroft had stepped up to the plate and actually done something to demonstrate that he actually had feelings for Lestrade that his flatmate would do or be able to do the same. That would be leaping to conclusions and that only ever seemed to work out for the consulting detective himself.

Sherlock didn’t answer him, at least not verbally at first. Instead he let his hand move up to rest on John’s shoulder, much as he had back in Lestrade’s living room, and as before he searched his friend’s face.

This time, though, he did manage to say something.

“I...don’t do feelings,” he began haltingly and watched as John’s expression faltered.

It was far from obvious if you didn’t know the doctor, but Sherlock had made it his business ever since he came back to catalogue in his mind every single expression of John’s. He was far from an expert yet, given how many expressions and surprises his friend tended to throw his way, but it was clear to him that John thought he was about to be rejected.

“I don’t, John,” he repeated as he frantically ran through ways of phrasing it in a way that would be truthful yet considerate and, more importantly, would be believed as such. It was not something he had any sort of experience with and so he struggled. “I never have and I never wanted to, but you have always had a way of coaxing them out of me without meaning to.”

He moved his hand upward from the shoulder to place it gently against John’s cheek. “I can’t say that the feelings were particularly welcome at first but now...now I wouldn’t be without them. You are and always have been invaluable to me, John, and...” he swallowed “...when you showed signs that you preferred Lestrade over me, it...” He stopped, seemingly cross with himself, though for what precise reason John wasn’t sure. “I didn’t want to lose you.”

_Well, that can still be interpreted as Sherlock just having trouble dealing with having a good friend and being afraid of losing that_ , John thought, ignoring the way the hand on his cheek felt.

The doctor wanted to say something, but as several thoughts jostled for space in his head he had trouble managing to articulate what he actually wanted to say.

He was brought out of his jumble of thoughts by the feel of soft, dry lips pressing against his own. He blinked once, twice, eyes able to focus on the consulting detective in front of him. More specifically he saw that odd expression he had seen cross the pale features several times since he and Greg had ‘gotten together’; the expression that until now had only puzzled him immensely.

Now, though, he thought he might just begin to understand and he smiled, getting a smile in return. “That was what the whole suit thing was about?”

Sherlock adopted his patented ‘must you be so bloody obtuse’ expression at that. Then he bent down to claim John’s lips once more, this time a whole lot more aggressively; tongue pushed for entrance and went on to try and dominate the other man’s mouth. John gave as well as he got, though.

“Perhaps we should...leave the patient to...get some rest,” the doctor said somewhat breathily when they eventually parted.

“Don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

He looked out of the corner of his eye with a pointed air and John followed his line of vision to where Mycroft was practically halfway onto the bed, being tugged down by Lestrade’s insistent hands on the back of his neck and the lapel of his suit jacket. The inspector was doing a valiant job of snogging the living daylights out of the red fox.

“Maybe not,” John conceded. He looked back at Sherlock and there was a glint in his eye that promised a lot of things; things that sent barely repressed shivers down the younger Holmes’ spine.

John was about to ask whether they should go home, but he didn’t get a chance; Sherlock grabbed his wrist and was dragging him out the room rather forcefully before he managed to utter a word. Not that he minded.

There would be a lot of sorting out what would happen now and what exactly had happened in the last few months, suits and acid and bouts of jealousy included. But that would be later.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mycroft...”

Greg looked around the room, slightly intimidated by the understated, immaculate style that reeked of money far more than designer brands ever could. The sheer size of what was essentially a reception room wasn’t helping matters.

“Why are we here?”

“We are here, dear Gregory, because you were only discharged on the condition that you would recuperate at home.”

Lestrade squirmed slightly as he tried to find a more comfortable way to sit in the wheelchair he was currently forced to occupy. “Yes, at _home_. This is not my bleeding home.” Not that he particularly wanted to go back there so soon, given what he had done there, but that wasn’t really the point.

Mycroft wasn’t fazed in the slightest by the sharp tone; he merely gave the ghost of a smile as he continued to steer the wheelchair through the reception room and the living room into the master bedroom. “No, but it is mine. Here I can make you that you recover at an acceptable pace far more easily than I ever could were you in your own flat.”

They’d reached the bedroom by this point and he stopped the chair close to the bed. He then made a move as to grab hold of the detective inspector, but Greg gave him a glare for his troubles. Muttering under his breath as his abdominal muscles were stretched, he levered himself out of the chair and onto the bed, sitting against the headboard.

“I can walk, you know. I’m not made of glass and it’s not that bad.”

Suddenly the elder Holmes was looming right in front of him, a steely expression on his face. It was hard not to be a bit surprised by the fact that emotions were visible at all on the man.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be the judge on that, do you, Gregory?” It wasn’t actually a question.

Mycroft’s expression softened after that and he planted a quick kiss on Greg’s cheek before sitting down on the bed and sliding his hands as gently as possible underneath the shirt and vest the inspector had been given to don along with a pair of jeans when he were allowed to leave the hospital. Lestrade had wisely decided to forego asking where they had been procured from.

Greg let himself be manhandled; he was aware that this was more than likely a part of the redhead’s attempt at penance for his earlier behaviour and so he didn’t want to discourage him. Nevertheless, he was as nervous as he was thrilled by the prospect of being stripped by the man he’d been in love with for who knows how long. Not that his heart was hammering or anything like that. He was over forty years old, for Pete’s sake; he should be able to handle something like that with some measure of maturity.

The fact that he was past forty was also the reason for his nervousness; he was in no way in bad shape for his age, but there were plenty of signs on his body showing his age and so he couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious as first his shirt, then his vest came off.

As if sensing the unease – and Greg definitely wouldn’t put _that_ past the man – Mycroft leant in as soon as the chest in front of him was bared and let his lips ghost over the clavicle bone, slowly and softly, the feathery feel sending shivers down Lestrade’s spine. They only intensified as the lips moved ever so slowly downwards and the shivers in turn shot right down into his interested groin.

“I thought I was...meant to rest?” Greg managed to ask, a little shakily.

He could feel the lips curve into a smile against his skin; the tone of the voice following that made it clear that it was in fact a smirk. “Well, of course, dear Gregory,” Mycroft said, lips touching skin as he spoke, “and you are going to. There is nothing to say that your rest can’t be...improved, though.”

Long, deft fingers slid under the waistband of Greg’s jeans, moving towards the button and undoing it while the lips continued to slowly ghost their way downwards, circling ever so carefully around the navel. Lifting his hips to aid with the removal of the jeans, the inspector tried to stifle the moan of mixed pleasure and pain that came from the lips on his stomach accidentally pressing harder into it, pushing at overly abused muscles.

Mycroft pulled off at that but only so that he could more easily pull the jeans the rest of the way off, removing the socks as he went.

Greg meanwhile slid slowly, mindful of his ‘condition’, down so that he was lying on top of the covers instead of sitting. The pleased hum from Mycroft made him crack a smile.

The smile turned into a soft gasp when the elder Holmes bent down again and let his lips continue their feathery exploration, this time starting at the middle of the left inner thigh and moving upwards at a pace that felt agonizingly slow to Lestrade. His cock had begun to stir almost as soon as the undressing had begun, but now it was starting to strain against the cotton of his briefs, desperate for the attention that was so very close and yet so very far.

He wanted very badly to push his hips upwards thereby directing the attention the right place and he did try. Mycroft was not to be deterred, however; the long hands came up to grip onto the hips and held them firmly down. The mouth lifted from the thigh, only to breathe warm, moist air over the cloth-encased flesh, causing it to twitch fervently.

“Mycroft...” The name came out on an exhale that was more of a moan than anything else. “Shush, now,” Mycroft chided.

“I will take you apart and put you together, then do it all over again until I have paid a fraction of the proper penance for my earlier conduct.”

“You honestly don’t have to – “

“I _know_. But I want to.” With that, he lowered his head again, much to the joy of Greg.

 

* * *

 

“So...” John began.

They were lying in bed. More specifically, they were lying tangled together on their sides in Sherlock’s bed, naked and covered in both cooling sweat and the ejaculations from them both. The consulting detective was spooning; curled around his doctor, one long leg thrust between two rather stockier ones, ankle hooked around one shin. One arm was propped up to support the head while the other was draped over John’s waist, seemingly loosely and by coincidence.

John knew that it was only seemingly, though, as when he’d tried to get up earlier to get something to clean them up with, the arm had tightened around him rather pointedly. It didn’t loosen until it was clear that there would be no further attempts to get out of bed.

“So...” he started again. “How long? Was it really only because you felt that I was starting a relationship with Greg that...” he had trouble finishing the sentence. It seemed rather disheartening to think that his friend had only laid a claim because he didn’t want anyone else to.

For a moment, there was no answer and John suspected that Sherlock was trying to pretend he was asleep never mind the fact that John could tell perfectly well the breathing wasn’t actually as relaxed as it appeared.

“You are not a toy,” was what finally came and the doctor blinked, thrown slightly by the apparent non sequitur. Then he remembered having accused Sherlock of thinking something to that effect.

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not.”

“I’m...it’s not...this isn’t an experiment, humouring you or being possessive.” The almost vice-like grip on John’s waist would beg to differ with that last statement, but with a possible further explanation on the table he wasn’t going to argue. “It...I want this, John. With you. Very badly and not for any sort of ulterior motive. Just...you, in every possible way there is.” To underline his point, he tightened his hold on his new lover and nuzzled into his neck.

It was rather romantic in its own Sherlockian way. After everything, it was as close to perfect as he could hope for.

Despite the tight grip, John managed to turn around, a smile tugging on his lips. He planted a lingering kiss on cupid bow lips, eliciting a smile in return from Sherlock as they parted.

“I love you too, you utter nutter,” John said, watching as the smile on Sherlock’s face turned into a full-blown beam. “Just wish that it hadn’t taken all that trouble and worry to get to this point.”

“Sometimes, it’s the results that counts, John.”

John couldn’t really argue with that.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Epilogue_ **

 

A few weeks later, on a overcast, drizzly morning, found John in a cafe, sipping a cup of rather overpriced coffee and waiting for a crumpet and a croissant.

The door bell jingled but the doctor didn’t look up until a little while later when the chair next to him was pulled out and a man sat down in it.

“I’m surprised you’ve been allowed out on your own.”

Greg let out a snort of a laugh. “Must we have a pot and kettle theme?” he asked before sipping on his own coffee. “Seems like it,” John agreed, unable to keep the grin from his face. “Not that either of us can really complain of the current situation, can we?”

“Nope, definitely not. Apart from one thing...”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the plates of baked goods and the subsequent good natured battle over who got the croissant and who got the slightly burnt crumpet. To the surprise of neither, it was John who got the crumpet.

“Honestly!” Lestrade was trying not to grin and was failing miserably. Then his voice lowered. “Apropos of that – I do miss our time together. You know.”

“Yeah – can’t see how we’ll get that much leeway from either of them just yet, though, can you?”

“Well...” Greg leaned back in his chair, mindful of his still sore stomach. “There is always that idea you had earlier, though, isn’t there?”

Two claimed men grinned conspiratorially at each other over their cups of coffee.

 

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this story - my very first foray into the Sherlock fandom - comes to an end. It's been a blast to write, 
> 
> THANK YOU to all those who have read and given feedback - it has been amazing and humbling and just...thank you. You have made this an absolute joy with your kudos, your kind words and your encouragement
> 
> I have left out the actual sex scenes on purpose as I have been told a few times I am not really good at it and so I decided to spare you all :) Sorry if that's a let down.
> 
> Feedback would be treasured dearly as ever
> 
> Oh and of course, for the, like, two people unaware of and interested in it, my fanfic-related tumblr: http://elphenfan.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure I've got them wrong, but I'd appreciate feedback so I can at least improve. That said, I've at least enjoyed writing this.


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